


A Year's Temptation

by Lomonaaeren



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Consensual Infidelity, Dubious Consent, F/M, M/M, Post - Half-Blood Prince, Veela
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-27
Updated: 2012-04-27
Packaged: 2017-11-04 10:47:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 23
Words: 118,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/393000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomonaaeren/pseuds/Lomonaaeren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco isn't best pleased to discover he's a Veela at twenty-four...especially since both he and his mate, Harry Potter, are married. Harry suggests a compromise that might work, if everyone agrees. But the compromise is fragile, and stands the chance of only making everything monumentally worse than before.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written back in 2007. While I tried to avoid character-bashing, both Ginny and Pansy are not displayed in the best light in this story. 
> 
> Warnings for violence, creature-fic, and past character deaths described in a fairly horrible manner. This is an AU after HBP, since it was written before the release of DH.

Harry sat back and rubbed a hand over his eyes. He couldn’t quite comprehend that he and Ginny were sitting in a grand dining room in the middle of Malfoy Manor, which they’d been told house-elves had opened specially to receive them, and had been drinking tea for the last ten minutes.

Of course, he couldn’t believe that Malfoy had been civil to them, either, or the reason they were here in the first place.

“I don’t like this,” he said to no one in particular.

Ginny tightened a hand on his arm and glanced at him supportively. Harry smiled at her, then winced as Pansy Parkinson’s—no, Pansy Malfoy’s—nasal voice spoke from across the room. “None of the rest of us are best pleased either, Potter.”

Harry looked across the table at Malfoy. He had his wife’s hand at his lips, but his eyes were narrow and focused on Harry. The mixture of emotions in them made Harry look away again.

The letter they’d received had barely explained anything. The Floo call Harry had immediately made to Malfoy Manor on receipt of the letter had only proven a bit more illuminating. But they were face-to-face now, and it surpassed Harry’s suspension of disbelief that Malfoy would have gone this far just for an elaborate joke.

And that meant it was up to _him_ to suggest a solution. Malfoy was no help, of course. Pansy hadn’t stopped glaring and making nasty comments since Harry and Ginny arrived. Ginny was ready to go along with whatever Harry said—they’d discussed that before they left home—but she had no answer of her own to offer.

“I need to confirm a few things,” Harry told Malfoy, keeping his eyes discreetly averted.

“Confirm away.” Malfoy’s voice was laden with hatred, and something else that Harry was _not_ going to think about.

“You said that you need sexual contact with me or you’ll die,” Harry said. He was unable to keep his voice from sounding disgusted. Well, Malfoy could find some other “mate” to save him if he didn’t like it.

“Yes.”

“What kind of sexual contact?” Harry asked, and turned back again. His face felt as if it were on fire, but he could do this. He _had_ to. “I meant, do we—do we need to have _sex_ with each other, or will—will wanking work?”

For the first time since they’d arrived, Malfoy’s face showed an emotion of some other kind than that stupid combination of loathing and lust. He shot a startled glance at Pansy, who shrugged. Then he turned around again and closed his eyes, as if seeking answers inside himself. “Questioning his Veela,” he called it. Harry wasn’t much more comfortable with the notion that Malfoy had an animal of some kind inside him than he was with the notion that Malfoy would go mad and die if Harry didn’t sleep with him.

Finally, he opened his eyes, which were brighter and glossier than normal, and said, “Wanking—would work. Having sex fulfills the bond, and ties us to each other, which neither of us want, of course. But I’d need contact with you daily for at least two weeks, Potter. Waiting for the turn of the year nearly killed me.”

“And the rest of the time?” Harry asked carefully. “How much contact would it take, and how long until the Veela in you was satisfied that I wasn’t leaving you but still didn’t want to bond, so it wouldn’t kill you?”

Again, Malfoy closed his eyes. When he opened them this time, he looked more certain. Harry tried not to notice that his face had shifted towards beauty, his hair gathering in more light, as if another sun were shining on him. “The rest of the time, about once a month,” he said. “Maybe more often than that, just so I could see and touch you, or be near you to drink in your scent. And then…” He let his breath out and shook his head as if he couldn’t quite believe it. “At the end of a year from now, it should be done.”

“A calendar year?” Harry asked, just to make sure.

“That is usually what _a year_ refers to, Potter,” Malfoy drawled, shooting him an incredulous look.

Harry ignored it. He was working to save both the ridiculous git’s life and his marriage with Ginny. He would put up with worse to do that. “So what about this, then?” he asked. “I come to—help you—daily for the next two weeks, and after that when you need me, until the year’s up. But both of us stay apart other than that. Both of us stay married.” He leaned forwards and stared into Malfoy’s eyes, to convey the seriousness of this. “That will satisfy the Veela, you said, and then we can end it. We can’t stand each other. But I don’t want you to die, and I don’t want to give up Ginny, either.”

“Do we get a say in this?” Pansy demanded.

Harry darted a look of dislike at her, and stood. “Of course you do. I’ll speak about this with my wife privately, right now.” He touched Ginny’s shoulder, and waited until she stood. She was moving slowly, which was always a bad sign, but he wouldn’t know anything until he saw her face.

When they were in the next room, he studied her carefully. She had her chin up, though, and her eyes were bright, and her jaw was set. No matter what her personal hatred of the idea, he knew, she’d managed to subdue it.

“You have to do it,” she said.

“You can’t like the idea of me cheating,” Harry said. Be as blunt as he could, get matters out in the open, and they could discuss it like normal people. That was always the way he and Ginny functioned, and if she was rarely the one to bring the idea out into the open, well, she always discussed it frankly enough with him once he’d done so.

“I don’t,” said Ginny. “But I like the idea of Malfoy dying because of you even less.” She hesitated for a long moment, then sighed. “And it’s not as though I’ll lose you,” she said. “You chose _me_ , not him. This is only Veela magic, and Veela really can’t help who their mates are.” She smiled, though her quivering lower lip betrayed her. “I’ll survive, Harry, I promise.”

Harry stepped forwards and put his arms around her waist. “You’re sure?” he murmured into her ear. “I’d rather go through a trial for conspiracy to murder, or whatever crime refusing a Veela is, than make you unhappy.”

“But your going through the trial would make me unhappy, too.” Ginny rose on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “No, Harry, this is the right thing to do. You always do the right thing.” Her hands squeezed his tightly, and she stepped away from him, apparently so she could admire his face. “It’s the thing I most love about you.”

Harry bent to kiss her on the mouth, but a throat cleared loudly behind him made him turn around. Malfoy and Pansy stood in the doorway between the two rooms—an arched doorway, of course—with their arms entwined. Pansy had her nose slightly lifted. Harry had to shake his head a little. Of course their faces were different, but otherwise, they looked remarkably like Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.

_ Or their ghosts. _

“Have you decided?” Harry asked, keeping his voice as calm as he could.

“We have,” Malfoy said. “I agree to your compromise, Potter. And so does my wife.” He traded an unreadable look with Pansy, but his eyes were openly spite-filled as he stared at Ginny. “It’s the best way. And the only way to ensure that I don’t die—which of course I don’t want—or that, God forbid, you become attracted to me.”

Harry let his lip curl. “God forbid,” he echoed fervently. He couldn’t imagine anyone finding Malfoy attractive without the Veela beauty. He wondered how Pansy had stood six years as his wife.

“Well.” Malfoy lifted one hand and stroked Pansy’s shoulder, then strode past him. “We’re doing this properly, Potter, in a bedroom. Say goodbye to your wife for right now. Of course, if all goes well, you’ll be seeing her in fifteen minutes or less.”

Harry nodded a swift farewell to Ginny. He didn’t think he should kiss her with Malfoy looking the way he did; Veela jealousy was apparently quite strong if they actually _saw_ their mate touch someone else like that. Then he turned around, quieted his churning stomach, and reminded himself this was for the best. He wouldn’t have the guilt of either adultery _or_ Malfoy’s death on his conscience.

“Lead the way,” he said.

*

Draco hoped that he hid how badly his hands were shaking as he unbuttoned his robes and kicked them off. Behind him, there were no sounds of Potter undressing. But, of course, that wasn’t _disappointing._ After all, Potter only had to wank him off. The Veela inside him would have been pleased to pleasure its mate, but it didn’t require that kind of sexual contact to live, and so Draco intended to retain that one small measure of control.

If it hadn’t been for the Potions accident at the Ministry—where he didn’t even _work_ , since he played Quidditch; he’d only been visiting Theodore—he wouldn’t be in this position. Something about the combination of potions spilled on him and his own instinctive spellwork to defend himself had awakened the Veela inside him, an abomination that everyone had believed bred out of the Malfoy line several generations ago. The magical theorists Draco had consulted, including several specialists from the Department of Mysteries, had come up with various explanations for how it might have happened, but, in the end, they could only tell Draco three things for certain:

None of them could undo it.

He would die if he didn’t have _some_ sort of sexual contact with his mate.

The Veela that lived inside him now, almost like a separate personality, would tell him what was and was not permitted in the way of obtaining that sexual contact.

Draco had known his mate almost at once. A scent scattered throughout the Ministry had made him pant and caused a tug low in his groin. He’d stumbled through the halls away from the Potions division the first time he returned there, hating his weakness even as he let his body guide him to the one it had picked, because he had no choice if he wanted to survive.

And then he’d found out it was Harry Potter, and for a while he’d thought death would be preferable.

It had been Pansy who talked him back into sanity. Their marriage had been arranged, but Draco had never been so glad of a decision his parents made in his life. Pansy was a woman of fundamental _sense._ She was the one who made most of their financial decisions. She was the one who managed Draco’s public reputation in the press, including fighting the lingering accusations that he was a Death Eater. And she was the one who suggested he find some way short of the full bond with Potter to live.

Draco had waited as long as he could, until he was shaking in pain and desire each morning, before he’d contacted Potter. Pansy had said his goody-goody Gryffindor tendencies wouldn’t let him leave an innocent person to suffer, and she had been right. Potter had even come up with a compromise.

And now Draco was about to let another man put his hands all over him. The rational part of his mind was completely revolted by the idea.

The Veela inside him was satisfied for the first time since the accident. _It_ could think of nothing but Potter’s scent, Potter’s closeness, and Potter’s perfection. Draco didn’t dare look at Potter, just in case he started to drool. It had been hard enough to retain a calm mask of the sneering hatred his human side felt in the drawing room, and even harder not to explode when he saw him touching his wife as though she meant something to him.

_ Of course she does, she’s his wife. _

But that just made his Veela side snarl, and even the human part of him couldn’t see the sense in Potter marrying a Weasley when he could have had anyone he wanted.

“Are you ready?”

Potter’s voice was cool, but steady. Draco had seen his own loathing more than reflected in Potter’s eyes. At least he probably had even more practice in dealing with difficult situations now than he had at Hogwarts, Draco thought. Potter was an Auror, one of the small and highly-skilled group called the Hermes Corps. Their specialty was situations that required both immense magic and immense speed—mostly dark spells, traps, and wizards left over from the war.

Draco managed to nod, though his neck was so tense he hadn’t been sure he could move his head until it happened.

“Do you want to do this on the bed?”

Draco looked at the bed. It was the centerpiece of the room he’d chosen—certainly not his and Pansy’s own bedroom; he wouldn’t sully _that_ with Potter’s presence. But it was huge, made of black wood, with dark green curtains that swung down around it and shielded most of the mattress from sight. The room itself was dim, made dimmer still by the lack of windows or mirrors or metals to reflect light. Nearly everything here was wooden.

“We might as well,” he said, as indifferently as he could when his cock was rising, stirring, reacting to Potter’s presence. “I’ll sit on the bed, and you sit behind me and wank me.”

He said the word without stuttering. In that, he did better than Potter had, and that restored some of his pride. Without a glance back to see if Potter would follow instructions, he walked over, climbed onto the bed, and sat down with his legs splayed, his face to the opposite, right side.

There was a sigh, and then Potter sat down on the bed behind him. Draco kept his hands still, and if he trembled a bit at the nearness of the other man’s body heat, well, that was a slight motion. Potter would miss it.

One more moment of suspense, when Draco wondered if he would have to taunt his old school rival into this, and then Potter’s capable hand curved around his right arm and down to his erection.

Draco arched his neck, with a sharp gasp. It felt good, of course, because a hand there _always_ felt good. What he hadn’t known was that his human and Veela sides would have different reactions even to this. The human just felt good. The Veela was riding a wave of pure ecstasy, partly physical and partly magical.

He had no choice now. Draco closed his eyes and let the Veela rise to the surface fully for the first time.

The scent and the warmth surrounding him increased tenfold, as did his hunger. He arched his hips, pushing restlessly into Potter’s hand. This was his _mate_ , and suddenly a large part of the world that had been empty and dark was filled with light. He snaked one arm behind him and clenched it around what of Potter’s ribs and side he could reach. He felt cloth beneath his own skin, which wasn’t satisfactory, but would have to do for now. He could feel his beauty increasing, as if he wore a gauzy mask in the shape of his human form that had at last dropped away. He murmured nonsense, mostly his mate’s name interspersed with endless words of adoration and contentment.

Potter remained still for long moments. Then his hand began to move.

Draco threw his head back and cried out in pleasure, surging up to meet Potter’s hand. His own magic rose to the surface of his skin and spread there, intermingling with the edges of Potter’s magical aura. The intensity was like nothing he’d shared with Pansy when they made love. The mere touch of Potter’s hand was like white fire. Every separate brush of his fingers was a lightning strike.

Draco’s cock hardened painfully, his balls drawing up. He heard himself whine, but he was too far gone to be embarrassed about it.

Potter said something. Draco couldn’t tell what it was. He didn’t care. He was thrusting, and then reaching back again to feel his mate’s body, and the scent danced around him like an aura of its own, and there was warmth _everywhere._ Summer heat, sun heat, love heat, it made him sweat and reach and strain and want more of it. As near as he could tell, he had become nothing but pure, liquid desire.

And then he came, and the _intensity_ of it was enough to make him scream. This, finally, was the _right_ person to be doing this with. _This_ was the reason his Veela side had chosen Potter. It had nothing to do with soulmates or unsuspected personality traits in common or secret destinies, as the magical theorists had babbled about, and everything to do with how good Potter’s hand felt around his cock.

Utterly spent, unable to care about the come dribbling down Potter’s palm or how stupid he must look, he sagged back on Potter’s chest and shut his eyes. He had the uncomfortable feeling he was purring, or making some sound not far from it.

He didn’t give a damn.

He wanted to say something, but exhaustion in the wake of an orgasm so powerful swept over him, and he fell asleep.

*

Harry grimaced and drew his wand from his pocket with his left hand as best he could, then muttered a _Scourgify_ charm to get the mess off his right palm.

If it was never worse than that, he thought, as he pulled away from Malfoy and arranged the other man carefully on the bed, he could live with it.

Handling another bloke’s cock wasn’t so different from his own—nothing Harry would want to do on a regular basis, because the smell was all wrong, and the body he held was too hard, and Malfoy’s voice moaned throatily when it should have sounded breathy, the way it did when Harry slept with Ginny.

But he could do it. He could do it to ensure that they both lived and stayed as free of each other as possible.

He was uncomfortably aware that Malfoy had enjoyed it a good deal more than he did. But, well, he was a Veela now, or part of him was. He was _supposed_ to.

And he would have to do it every day for two weeks.

Harry gave a little shudder, and left the room as quickly and silently as he could to fetch Ginny and Apparate home, leaving Malfoy snoring on the bed.

*

“Was it very horrible, Draco?”

Draco lifted his eyes to look at Pansy, and managed to smile. She’d sat on the other side of the dining table for the whole of this meal, anxiously inspecting him while house-elves went back and forth with the dishes and Draco brooded. He knew she hadn’t eaten much, and he felt a pang of obscure guilt at that.

He couldn’t feel much, though. His human side was consumed with embarrassment, and his Veela side was counting the hours until the time that Potter had promised to return and they could do it again.

“It was—bearable,” he said. He was _not_ going to share with his wife how much he liked having Potter’s hand on him, even though she was his wife, and she had lived with this Veela madness for three months now, just like he had, and she would have understood. He deliberately picked up the glass of wine in front of him and took a sip. “I’ll be so glad when this is over,” he added.

His human and Veela sides understood that statement in different ways. The human side looked forwards to the end of the year, and thus the end of his series of involuntary assignations with Potter, with relief.

The Veela side was content that it would have wooed its mate around by then, and imagined what Potter would look like naked.

But, though it gave him all sorts of inconvenient images in his head, that was quite different from the gnawing, gut-wrenching pain that it had subjected him to for weeks until he finally gave in and owled Potter. Draco _could_ live with this. Potter had provided a way out for them both.

With some surprise, Draco realized he was grateful to him for that. Not that he had to _tell_ him so.

“Draco.”

He glanced up. He knew that tone of Pansy’s voice. She had leaned forwards, eyes going smoky with desire.

“Do you want to…? After dinner…?” She dropped her eyes coyly. She rarely spoke of sex outright, the one feminine frippery that remained to an otherwise very practical woman.

Draco nodded. His Veela side paid no attention at all, which was a change, since for the last week it had cried out violently whenever Draco wanted to have sex with someone who wasn’t Potter.

_ I can live. We’ll get through this, and it’ll all be over. _

*

Harry sighed in relief as Malfoy cried out and came under his firm, patient stroking. This was the eighth time he’d been to the Manor, the eighth day he’d jerked Malfoy off, and while the first seven times had been quick, lasting no more than five minutes each, this time Malfoy had taken forever, as if he were deliberately delaying his own orgasm. But he wouldn’t do that, Harry knew. They hated each other. No, it was probably some new twist his Veela side had introduced.

He muttered the cleaning charm, as always, and then started to lay Malfoy down on the bed, as always. That was when he realized that Malfoy wasn’t asleep. Harry raised his eyebrows at him.

Malfoy smiled up at him, face sleepy and vulnerable, reminding Harry _far_ too much of what Ginny looked like after sex. The Veela had taken over, that was clear, chiseling his features into something stranger and more beautiful, making sharper cheekbones appear as if they’d faded into being, increasing the shine of his hair and skin. It was like and unlike the Veela beauty of the Beauxbatons girls Harry remembered from their fourth year at Hogwarts. It was—well, it was still beautiful, but it was more overwhelming, like the distant view of a snowy mountain suddenly brought close.

_ He’s focusing the allure on you, that’s all,  _ Harry told himself, and realized he’d hung above Malfoy, staring, for far longer than he should have. He averted his gaze and started to turn away.

Malfoy’s hand closed lightly on Harry’s wrist.

Harry had to close his eyes. All their other touches had been through cloth, or initiated by Harry. Apparently it made a difference when the Veela decided to reach out. Pleasure so keen it stung raced through his arm and torso, and made its way downwards like whips of heat. Harry heard his breath pick up, turning to hoarse, heavy panting, and had to imagine Ginny instead.

“Stay here with me,” the Veela whispered. Harry had to think of it that way, because there was no way Malfoy would ever have asked for something like this. “Come on, Harry. We haven’t ever _slept_ together. Don’t you want to share the bed? It’s warm, while the rest of the Manor is cold. Sleep, and then we’ll wake up, and I’ll make you come, and then we can complete the bond.”

_ Oh, no.  _ Harry knew what that meant, and the thought of having actual _sex_ with Malfoy was enough to kill most of the desire the Veela was trying to inflict on him, if not all the heat burning beneath his skin. “No, thank you,” he said, so it wouldn’t seem like he was rejecting the creature completely. “Maybe later.” He tried to pull away, but the hold remained firm.

“Just a kiss,” the Veela said. “We haven’t ever kissed, either, Harry.”

Harry sighed. He couldn’t tell which decisions he was making for himself and which he wasn’t. His head was high and hazy, like a city full of mist at noonday, and his heart was full of Ginny.

“Just one kiss,” the Veela said, and hummed. The sound was beautiful, and stirred butterflies in Harry’s stomach like the ones he’d once felt when he caught sight of Ginny.

“Fine,” Harry said, because he didn’t see how he was ever going to get his hand back otherwise, and turned around.

The Veela was already sitting up to meet him, shadowy wings extending from its shoulder blades. Harry closed his eyes, and did his best to pretend he was kissing a woman; that would be easier if he couldn’t see the face.

But the kiss cut through all his defenses. It held the same desire that had pulsed through the hand on his wrist, only redoubled. The Veela laughed, and even the _sound_ was different, neither Malfoy’s laugh nor Ginny’s, deeper and sweeter and scented with a fragrance Harry thought he had smelled once on waking from a dream.

_ They’re magical creatures,  _ he remembered dimly. _It’s probably using magic on me._

He opened his mouth when the Veela pushed out its tongue, and found himself gasping as the tongue stroked his cheeks, his teeth, his gums, and then retreated and licked at his lips again. Harry leaned after it instinctively, and the Veela gave a little laugh of triumph and wrapped its arms around his waist. Its hands remained still for a moment, then shifted, digging at his robes, trying to reach skin.

Maybe it was the second laugh, maybe it was the greater amount of touch, but the spell broke. Harry gasped, then put his hands out and rested them on top of the Veela’s shoulders. It looked up at him, eyes still the color of Malfoy’s, but deeper, with glittering light in them that Harry had never seen in the eyes of anything human.

“No,” Harry whispered. “Not yet.”

The Veela watched him closely for a moment, then smiled, a dazzling smile Harry had to look away from, and let him go. “I agree,” it murmured in chiming tones. “Not yet. But soon, Harry. I don’t hate your wife, you know, or Pansy.” A dark shimmer crossed its face that made Harry wonder how true _that_ was. “It’s simply a matter of fitting together _better_ than they do with us. You’ll see.”

And then it turned over again, and seemed to draw a shadow over itself, and became Malfoy—Malfoy curled on his side, mouth open in a very human way, asleep.

Harry suppressed a shudder and left as soon as he could. _Poor bastard. Living with that beast inside him all the time._

*

Draco was on the defensive when Potter next appeared. “Look, Potter,” he said, when Potter gestured for him to take off his robes. “I don’t want you to think I _like_ men. I don’t. The only person I ever _want_ to have sex with is Pansy.”

Potter gave him a blank look for a long moment, which made Draco think he was brain-damaged and had forgotten everything that had happened between them the last time—the way Draco wished he could, instead of having to listen to the Veela repeat the memories over and over to itself in a satisfied manner. Then Potter shook his head. “It wasn’t you,” he said. “It was the Veela.” He raised an eyebrow and glanced at his watch. “Now. I’ve got an appointment at the Ministry in half-an-hour. Can we hurry this as much as possible?”

Draco stared at him for a moment, but at Potter’s second impatient look, turned around and started undressing.

_ I didn’t—I didn’t expect him to understand— _

And he hadn’t. He’d expected teasing, cruel laughter, Potter’s own defensiveness to cover his discomfort as he remembered how eagerly he’d kissed another man, anything but this level of understanding.

It gave him something to think about even as he surrendered to the intense relief and release that Potter’s presence always brought, and later when he woke and found himself alone in the bed, as usual, neatly cleaned and with the sheets tucked around him.

_ This really isn’t going to ruin our lives—mine or his. We really are going to climb over this and go on. _

It wasn’t something he’d _believed_ , at least on the deepest levels of himself, since the Potions accident. Now Draco closed his eyes and did his best not to sob. He was going to be _free._

_ Potter the savior strikes again. _

The thought wasn’t entirely bitter. Potter hadn’t been able to save him during their sixth year. He hadn’t saved Draco’s parents. But he’d killed Voldemort, and he’d saved the wizarding world, and he was apparently up to the task of saving both himself and Draco from one Veela.

Draco lay there for a long time, thinking about that, until Pansy sent a house-elf to ask whether he’d fainted with disgust from Potter’s touch.

*

Harry sighed and rolled over to gather Ginny up in his arms. He couldn’t help contrasting his eagerness to be near her after sex with his eagerness to get away from Malfoy. If that wasn’t a sign that he was meant to be with his wife instead of the Veela, what was it?

Ginny gave him a sleepy smile, stretched up to kiss him, then yawned mightily and went to sleep on his chest. Harry lay awake, stroking her hair and staring up at the canopy of their bed.

Tomorrow was the last day of the two weeks, and, hopefully, the last day he’d have to visit Malfoy until February. Harry closed his eyes in relief at the thought. He’d told Ginny about the encounter with the Veela, since they shared everything, and they’d laughed over it, but it wasn’t something he wanted to experience again.

*

Draco was still conscious when Potter finished making him come this time, but though he could feel his Veela side rising to the surface again, he forced it back down. That had become easier and easier to do since it started getting regular sex. It grumbled but subsided, and Draco rolled onto his side to watch Potter carefully cast cleaning charms on his robes.

Potter glanced up. “What?” he asked.

“I’ve never told you thanks,” Draco murmured.

Potter blinked, then smiled a bit. “Thought that was against the Malfoy code of honor.”

Draco narrowed his eyes, but no joke about the absolute lack of Malfoy honor followed. Potter just stood there, politely regarding him, as though he wondered what else Draco wanted to say before he could leave.

“ _Why_ did you agree to help me?” Draco asked then. “It’s true you could have been accused of conspiracy to murder a Veela if you refused me and I died, but you’re Harry Potter. They’d probably drop the charges. They need you too much.”

The boy Draco remembered would have stammered and blushed and denied that, or said something insulting. This man just tilted his head and shrugged a little. “Maybe,” he said. “But this wasn’t your fault, Malfoy. People don’t deserve to die for actions that weren’t their fault. And it became easier once I started seeing the Veela. No one deserves to have _that_ living inside them.”

Draco would have thrown something if Potter had showed pity, but the green eyes gazing at him showed only sympathetic loathing.

He didn’t know what it was about that look that made him react the way he did. Maybe just the presumption, the unspoken idea that Potter could ever _really_ feel as he did about the creature he carried inside him. Draco let a bit of the Veela beauty shine through his cheeks and eyes as he said, “I notice you’ve never been aroused.”

“I don’t like men, Malfoy,” was all Potter said, evenly, and then he turned away and strode from the room.

Draco lay back on the pillow, arms behind his head, frowning. Not even the sexual satiation that made his muscles languid could calm his mind right now, or the idea that he was free of Potter for at least a week.

He couldn’t help being helplessly aroused with Potter around, that was true. He couldn’t help the fact that the Veela within him had chosen Potter for its mate.

But that didn’t mean he couldn’t even the scales a bit. Tip the balance, so that Potter didn’t win the contest completely. And since Potter so obviously considered himself unassailable on the sexual front, that was the obvious place to begin.

Draco smirked and sat up. It wasn’t cheating on Pansy, he reassured himself. It was making Potter cheat on his wife. Pansy would think it was a grand joke, once Draco explained it to her.

The Veela inside him purred, a sound that made his ribcage vibrate.

Draco shuddered. He _hated_ when it did that.

 


	2. February (Part One)

“And does that mean that _I_ get to go first into the deserted-looking house next time?” 

“Of course not,” Harry murmured, outwardly concentrating on his paperwork as much as he could, but in reality counting down the seconds to the time he would have to dodge. “It means that, next time, you get to cast the Silencing Charm on your shoes.”

Quiet, in which he could _feel_ Ralph staring at the back of his head.

“You know,” Harry went on in a bright, helpful tone, as he signed his name on the bottom of the report in front of him. “Since you were the one whose noise warned Drawbridge so that he ran away from us.”

He was ready when Ralph crumpled up a report and cast a jinx that sent it zooming at his head, because that was what he did every time Harry blamed him for a mistake on a case. Harry ducked and cast his own Shield Charm, which deflected the paper into a corner of the office littered with balls of parchment. There they would lie until someone got bored, or until they heard Shacklebolt was coming on an inspection and scrambled to clean up.

 

“You _wanker_ ,” Ralph told him.

 

“That’d be you, not me,” Harry told him as he turned around, even as he suppressed unwanted images of the time he’d spent with Malfoy. “Since I have a wife, and you don’t.”

 

Ralph Hexwood folded his arms and pouted. Harry grinned at him. A casual listener would probably have thought they hated each other, or at least blamed each other for every small mishap in a Hermes Corps case, but in reality they’d been partners for two years and got along rather well.

 

Besides, as Harry was quick to remind Ralph whenever he tried to complain too much, he really _did_ commit most of the mistakes on their cases. And if he ever went to Shacklebolt or someone higher about it, who would they believe, the great Harry Potter or the poor Scottish wizard who’d had to work his way up through the ranks?

 

It was usually about then that Ralph responded with an obscene gesture, something he seemed on the point of doing now. Harry watched with interest. Sometimes he didn’t know what they meant, and he was convinced that Ralph made half of them up, anyway.

 

Before Ralph could do anything, they heard a sharp knock at the door. As one, they gave their wands expert flicks, and an illusion of a clean office hid the pile of paper in the corner, the empty cups scattered on both their desks, and the picture from _Playwitch_ that Ralph kept over his desk when no one but Harry was there to see.

 

“Come in!” Harry called officiously, while Ralph bent over his paperwork with a ferocious determination that wouldn’t fool anyone who knew him.

 

Of all the people Harry was expecting to see walk through his office door, Malfoy was _not_ one of them. Harry sat back, staring at him incredulously. If Malfoy needed him, wouldn’t he have sent a discreet owl? It wasn’t as though he would want to start rumors about the stupid magical accident he’d had, let alone his dependence on Harry.

 

“Malfoy,” he said, keeping his voice cool. “Is there something we can do for you?”

 

Ralph turned around in interest. Though he supported a different Quidditch team than Malfoy’s Falmouth Falcons, he still admired talent in the air, and even Harry had to admit that Malfoy had that in spades.

 

Malfoy lingered in the door for a long moment. He acted as if Harry were the only one there, staring intently at him. Harry _hoped_ he was the only one who noticed the way Malfoy’s nostrils flared and the muscles in his arms tensed, as if he were forcibly keeping himself where he stood.

 

Then the signs of thwarted desire vanished, and Malfoy tilted his head, raising one cool eyebrow. “I’m visiting the Ministry, Potter. Thought I’d stop by and see whether the taxes I pay actually _do_ support the Hermes Aurors to do nothing but sit on their arses all day, the way I’ve heard it.”

 

Harry rolled his eyes. He wondered, now, how he could have risen to the bait so many times in Hogwarts. Or maybe Malfoy’s insults just weren’t what they used to be.

 

_Or maybe I find it easier to be sympathetic to him now because I know what he’s suffering under._

 

“You didn’t catch us during one of our cases, unfortunately,” he said, keeping his voice light, aware of Ralph’s eyes on them all the time. “Then you could have had the fun of crouching in a dirty, smelly alley for hours, waiting for a target to make a move.”

 

“I thought the Hermes Corps was famed for speed.” Malfoy turned his head slowly from one side to the other, watching Harry like a bird. Given the glitter in his eyes, which resembled the Veela shine, Harry thought that might not be far from the truth. 

 

“Quick captures,” Harry said, showing his teeth. “But that still means long stalks, sometimes.”

 

“Ah,” said Malfoy. “Men with endurance. _I_ see.”

 

Harry came embarrassingly close to sitting up and demanding to know just what the fuck was happening. Did Malfoy _want_ people to think that they were cheating on their wives together? Ralph wasn’t the most observant of wizards, but he flirted with witches shamelessly. Sooner or later, he’d recognize flirting when it was dangled in front of his nose like this.

 

But perhaps Malfoy wouldn’t be that unhappy to make others think Harry was cheating on Ginny. The _Daily Prophet_ had been bored lately. This would make a juicy scandal for them.

 

Swallowing his anger, forcing himself to remember the Veela and the sort of stress Malfoy was dealing with lately, Harry said, “I’m sorry we can’t oblige you with a demonstration of our skills.” Then he winced, because he _did_ keep handing Malfoy straight lines. He went on determinedly, though, when that sharp mouth started to open to deliver another insult. “But is there anything else that we can help you with?” He pasted on the bright, helpful smile that all members of the Hermes Corps learned to use when reporters swarmed them, demanding to know information too sensitive to be released publicly yet.

 

“Actually, Potter, I did want to speak to you about that matter we discussed two weeks ago.” Malfoy’s face was blank, his eyes half-lidded. “I’m afraid a letter and a Floo call won’t do the trick this time. Could you come to the Manor this evening, at six?”

 

Harry cursed inwardly. He’d already had a long day—it was noon and he’d been at the Ministry since seven—and he hadn’t wanted to do anything more than go home and lie on the couch beside Ginny while she stroked his hair. But he had agreed to do what he could to preserve both their marriages, so that he _could_ have more evenings on the couch with Ginny while she stroked his hair, instead of winding up a Veela rape victim.

 

He kept his voice friendly as he said, “Of course, Malfoy. I’ll see you then.” His eyes, he knew, conveyed something far different.

 

Malfoy’s nostrils flared again, and he looked as though someone had just held up a piece of chocolate cake in front of him. “Good,” he said, and strode from the office, leaving the door open, probably because it was too plebeian for him to shut it. Harry rolled his eyes again and did the honors with his wand.

 

“What was _that_ , Harry?” Ralph asked, sounding far too alert and interested. “What could Malfoy possibly want?”

 

“You promise not to tell anyone?” Harry asked. He already had a lie prepared, of course.

 

Ralph mimed moving his wand in the gesture that sealed an Unbreakable Vow.

 

“Malfoy offered me free tickets to the next game the Falcons are playing if I gave my ‘unofficial’ support to them during the few weeks beforehand,” Harry said, leaning forwards and lowering his voice. He wasn’t a good liar even now, but much better when he knew what story he was going to tell. “They aren’t having a good season, you know.” Ralph nodded impatiently. “An interview here, an owl there…just a few hints that Harry Potter still thinks they can win. This meeting will be to work out the details of what I should say, and to whom.”

 

Ralph bought it easily, leaning back with a grin. “So your fame will benefit someone more than Harry Potter for once?”

 

Harry Summoned one of the crumpled parchments from the corner and threw it at him.

 

Ralph laughed, and then they exchanged a few more friendly insults and got back to work. Harry had to shake his head briskly, once to clear it of regret—Ralph wasn’t Ron and never would be, but he reminded Harry a lot of Ron in that last year of the war, before both he and Hermione had died—and once to clear it of irritation. Malfoy had acted like a right git in their last two interactions, this one and the time before that, summoning the Veela when Harry tried to offer him a bit of sympathy.

 

_Hopefully this wank will be a quick one._

 

*

 

Draco had tried to explain the sensation of missing Potter to Pansy. It hadn’t worked. He wasn’t sure anyone but another Veela would have understood—and he certainly wasn’t about to seek out the only one he knew, the eldest Weasel’s quarter-Veela wife, and ask. How could he explain missing a warmth that had never belonged to him, or waking up blind and longing for a world he’d never seen?

 

Pansy had finally stopped his fumbling explanations, put a hand on his shoulder, looked into his eyes, and said, “I’ll arrange to be gone tomorrow evening, Draco.”

 

So he’d visited the Ministry today, and now he was pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, waiting for Potter. His hands itched; he would start picking at his own nails if he wasn’t careful. He could barely think, with all the thoughts he _did_ try to form racing across his mind in disordered streaks of light.

 

Finally, a house-elf appeared to tell him Potter had arrived and was walking up the stairs. Draco clenched his arms around his torso to keep himself from running towards him.

 

He heard the door open, and swung around. He knew the Veela was rising up, leaking through his face, but he couldn’t force it back down. Memories had been enough for almost two weeks; he’d foolishly thought they might be enough for a month, and he wouldn’t have to see Potter again before the end of February.

 

He’d been wrong.

 

Now Potter let the door fall shut behind him, and even with the expression of resigned distaste on his face, he was still the best thing Draco had seen all day. That brief glimpse this afternoon hadn’t been enough, nowhere near it.

 

He crossed the floor between them in four strides and wrapped his arms around Potter.

 

The ache in his head and gut, more maddening than any pain—it was what Draco thought flea bites would be like, not that he had experience of them— _melted._

 

His nose smelled what it was supposed to smell. The warmth that belonged next to him was back again. He wished there wasn’t so much cloth between him and Potter’s bare skin, but that could be cured.

 

“Malfoy,” he heard Potter say, in startlement. He kept still, not moving, as if he thought any sudden shift would cause Draco to attack. “What—“

 

He lifted his head and kissed Potter, a light enough kiss; he just needed the contact of lips, tongue, teeth. His hands rose of their own free will and raked through Potter’s hair, latching deep and tugging.

 

Potter made a noise of discomfort, and then broke away from him, catching and holding Draco with a hand in the center of his chest when he tried to move forwards. “Malfoy,” he said forcefully. “What do you _want_?”

 

Draco caught his breath then, and realized just how much like an animal he was acting. He dropped his eyes, flushing dully. He had Potter near him, and he couldn’t stand the thought that his mind would cloud again when the other wizard left.

 

But he also couldn’t stand the thought that he needed that closeness to function.

 

“I need you to—get me off again,” he said, keeping his eyes averted. “It’s been too long.”

 

“But it’ll be just once this month, right?”

 

Potter’s voice had an intensely hopeful tone that made Draco snarl in spite of himself.

 

“Yes,” he said. “It should be.” He lifted his head, and God, Potter’s face looked good to him in a way he couldn’t even _describe_ even as he retained all his human contempt for him, and it was almost enough to make him cry with frustration. “Pansy’s not here.”

Potter shrugged, as if Pansy’s presence or absence were a matter of pure indifference for him, and then started towards the bedroom they had always used.

 

The Veela had other ideas.

 

Draco felt himself pushed half-aside as the beast surged up in him; he could still watch what happened, and speak if he really needed to, but he no longer had complete control. The Veela reached out and caught Potter’s arm, and Draco had great satisfaction in watching him jump like a spooked horse.

 

“No,” said the Veela. “I want to do it here. On the floor. And we’ll face each other, this time.”

 

*

 

Harry felt the same slow burn as before start up his arm, and then the Veela said that ridiculous thing and flung the pleasure out of his head. They were in the room where Malfoy and Pansy had received them the first time, with the long table. He stared a moment, then shook his head.

 

“I’d feel more comfortable—“

 

“I wouldn’t,” said the Veela, and this time, it had a sly, teasing undertone to its voice that Harry hadn’t heard before but distrusted _immensely_. It pulled away from him and began to unbutton its robes, head tilted coyly to the side. Its blond hair half-shielded its eyes, which really _did_ resemble molten silver. “And since I’ve been uncomfortable for days, I really think I should be able to choose this time. Harry.”

 

Harry hated the way the sound of his name on the creature’s lips went to his groin. Deliberately filling his mind with images of Ginny, he decided that it was worth acceding to the—thing’s—demands so that he could get home to her more quickly. He nodded and sat down on the floor to wait.

 

“I’d like it if you removed your robes, too,” the Veela said softly. “Or at least your shirt.”

 

Harry shook his head stubbornly.

 

The Veela looked disappointed, but unsurprised. Then it turned half-away from him, shrugging off the robes and languorously stripping itself of shirt and trousers, and Harry realized with a jolt that it was trying to arouse him.

 

He set his teeth, didn’t move, and didn’t relax one disapproving muscle in his face, even when the Veela tossed back its hair and gave him a sly, melting glance over its shoulder.

 

Too soon after that, the thing was naked and kneeling eagerly in front of Harry, legs spread, so he could take its cock in his hand.

 

The skin felt hotter and smoother than last time—and it had always felt hotter than Ginny’s skin had. Harry ruthlessly shoved such comparisons out of his head and began to stroke.

 

The Veela watched him the entire time. Its breathing inflated its chest and then relaxed it, over and over again. Its skin flushed a deep pink beneath the pallor; incredibly, considering he played Quidditch and was outside a good portion of the time, Malfoy was even whiter than Ginny. The blond hair on the chest and around the crotch was rougher than Ginny’s, too. Harry tried as hard as he could to avoid letting his fingers come into contact with it. They did anyway.

 

And all the time, he could feel its eyes on him.

 

A particularly loud moan broke from the Veela’s throat, and Harry looked up, hoping it was near the end.

 

Their eyes locked.

 

The same glitter was there, but under the alien light was an indescribable tenderness—just as alien in its way, because Harry thought the look too possessive, too overwhelming, for one human to direct to another. He stared as the Veela lifted one hand and laid the back along his cheek. The eyes went on staring, staring, and Harry couldn’t have looked away if he tried.

 

Then the Veela came, and tossed its head back, growling in satisfaction. Harry’s hand became soaked, and the silver eyes shut, and he was free.

 

He hastily stood up and stepped back, performing a cleaning charm and watching the Veela closely. It sat where it was, breathing heavily. The odd luster had faded from the blond hair, though, and its voice was Malfoy’s when it spoke.

 

“Thanks, Potter. Just clean up the flecks from the carpet, won’t you?”  
  


Harry flicked his wand, removing the last of Malfoy’s waste without a word. Then he turned and walked from the room, ignoring Malfoy’s next taunt—something about a post-sex cuddle.

 

All the way down the stairs, and then out through the front entrance to the point where he could Apparate, the touch of the hand on his cheek lingered in exactly the same way the kiss from last time had.

 

And he remembered the way the Veela had looked at him, too.

 

All of it combined to make him deeply unnerved.

 

*

 

Draco smirked as he stretched his arms over his head and looked down his body at his own spent cock. He felt better than he had in weeks—and far better than he had the other times Potter had wanked him. It was true that he still succumbed to the same hopeless, helpless passion, and he had the Veela’s thoughts about fucking its mate and holding him forever to contend with. But he’d also been able to see Potter’s discomfort.

 

_It wasn’t just a mechanical task to him anymore. He can’t just ignore me._

 

As he casually stood and fetched his robes, he wondered whether he was giving in too much to the Veela inside him. _Did_ it make a difference whether Potter really saw him or not? After all, Potter wasn’t the one he wanted to have sex with, of his own free will. And he certainly wasn’t the one Draco loved.

 

In the end, he decided it mattered. He had lost too much control in their last few sessions. He wanted some of that control back.

 

The day Potter became aroused in his presence, Draco promised himself, he would call the contest finished and the scales balanced.

 

The Veela relived its mate’s warmth and purred ecstatically. Draco was feeling pretty damn satisfied himself.

 

*

 

“Harry?”

 

Harry fought to keep his eyes open. He had arrived home late, but Ginny had been there, and she had risen without a word, caught his arms, and pulled him into the bedroom. It seemed she’d had a bad day, too—she worked as an alternate flying teacher at Hogwarts, preparing to take over from Madam Hooch—and the best way for them to take out their mutual frustrations had always been with sex. They were both energetic, young, fond of trying as many different bodily positions as they could get away with, and able to pour their emotions into physical passion. After sating himself with Ginny, Harry’s mind and body were both liquid, and wanted nothing more than to melt.

 

“Hexwood owled us about a Falmouth Falcons game…?” Ginny’s voice was delicate, probing.

 

“Oh, that.” Harry yawned and rolled closer to her; his head rested on her knee. “Yeah, I used the story we invented. Malfoy came to our office, and I told Ralph that he’d offered me free tickets for a game if I promised to support the Falcons in the press.”

 

“Apparently, the tickets actually _arrived_ ,” said Ginny, sounding a bit bemused. “At your office, I mean. One for him, and one for you.”

 

Harry’s eyes shot open at that. The first thought he had was that that was awfully decent of Malfoy, actually sending the tickets to keep up appearances.

 

The second thought was: _That’s awfully convenient, that Malfoy wants me and Ralph to attend the game, but not Ginny._

 

Then he dismissed that. Malfoy didn’t want him, had no designs on him. This was a gesture from the Veela. Harry could hold the creature at bay, and he’d help Malfoy do the same thing, if it came to that.

 

He rolled upright on his elbows, and shook his sweaty hair out of his eyes. Their bed was a four-poster, and the curtains were drawn, but enough firelight came through the cracks in them so that he could see Ginny’s face. She was trying to smile, but her lower lip was trembling.

 

Harry reached up, curved a hand behind her neck, and pulled her down for a kiss. He made it as long, as slow, as deep, and as reassuring as he could. When he pulled back, she still had a troubled cast to the edges of her eyes, but her smile had returned.

 

“I’ll attend the game, because it would look strange if I didn’t, now that he’s sent the tickets,” he said, and lay back down, leering slightly at her. “But I will only ever love you, Ginny. I promise. If he thinks he can seduce me by inviting me to see that second-rate team of his play, he should think again.”

 

Ginny giggled, making his head and her lap and her breasts bounce. Harry breathed out gently across her stomach, and watched as gooseflesh immediately formed there.

 

“Now, I think I should make _you_ think about something else entirely,” he murmured, and moved his head forwards, his breath caressing her thighs.

 

From Ginny’s squeal a moment later, she more than agreed with that.

 

*

 

“Satisfied?” Draco inquired as airily as he could.

 

Branwen Gooseberry, coach and owner of the Falmouth Falcons, held up a hand without answering, watching the potion in the vial intently. Draco sighed and leaned back against the wall, his arms folded in front of him. They were in “that room” behind the Falcons’ showers, the one that everyone knew existed but no one mentioned in public—the room where Branwen took her players when she suspected them of deliberately poor performance or taking illegal potions.

 

As Draco had known it would, the test potion in the vial glowed a clear, heavenly blue, a sure sign that he didn’t have anything strange in his blood. Branwen let out a breath.

 

“Is that clear enough for you?” Draco asked. “Or would you like to exsanguinate another vein?”

 

“Calm, Malfoy,” Branwen said, the way she always did, even when he was the furthest player on the team from angry. “You’ve been off your game lately, and then today you flew like you were possessed. Of course I would wonder if you’d decided to…help yourself a bit.”

 

Draco snorted, but turned away instead of replying. She wouldn’t apologize.

 

And she certainly wouldn’t understand if he tried to explain what had animated him today.

 

“Just continue it!” Branwen yelled after him.

 

Draco lifted a hand in acknowledgment without turning around.

 

He stripped in the narrow room in front of the showers, and entered them with a wave of his wand that would keep his clothes from being stolen while he bathed. He took his wand with him inside. Perhaps it was paranoia, but it had protected him from the pranks of rival teams and jealous fellow players more than once.

 

As he let the water cascade down between the strands of his hair and rubbed the soap over his chest, he thought of what had happened to him in the past few days. He had not only felt better than he had in the last two weeks, when all he’d had to feed on were the memories of his hurried encounters with Potter’s hand, but better than he’d felt in—years. His senses were clearer; his eyesight was like a falcon’s itself, and until Branwen yelled at him to stop, he’d caught the Snitch again and again and again, long before the rest of the players could score with the Quaffle.

 

He walked with a lighter step, he snapped out the answers to questions almost before other people could ask them, and—he smirked to himself—he fucked Pansy more enthusiastically.

 

As discreetly as he’d could, he’d written to some of the magical theorists he’d consulted after his accident, mentioned his symptoms, and asked what they were. Every single one had replied that this was a benefit of increased contact with his mate.

 

Draco had already found himself craving more. Of course he wanted to do well when the Falcons played other teams, but it was more than that. He wanted to go on _living_ like this. Even the normal life he’d had before the accident now seemed like walking through a bright, airy room while wrapped in cotton wool.

 

And he didn’t mind having contact with Potter, if that was the only way to achieve it. The Falcons played another game in a week, and Draco had sent the tickets even before Potter visited the Manor, doing his part to maintain the false story Potter had laid down. Now he was eager to see the git accept the invitation for other reasons. Draco would play spectacularly, and then corner him after the match. 


	3. February (Part Two)

“But, Harry, you _love_ Quidditch.”

Harry rolled his eyes at Ralph. “And I also love not being verbally flayed alive by Kingsley,” he said. “You go, Ralph. Escort Ginny. She deserves a chance to watch flyers who don’t scream for Mummy the moment their brooms are three feet off the ground.”

Ralph gasped and put a hand to his heart. “ _Me_ , insignificant _me_ , escort the beautiful Mrs. Harry Potter to a Quidditch game? You don’t want to give me the chance, mate. I’ll have persuaded her to leave the scarred fellow she’s married to and elope with me by the afternoon.”

Harry flung a crumpled parchment at him without even looking up. “I have to finish this paperwork.”

“She’ll be disappointed.”

Harry made a sound of exasperation and looked up as he rolled his eyes again. “She needs a bit of a holiday from me, too, Ralph. She told me so. We’ve either seen each other or our work colleagues every day this week—no time for anything else. Besides, if she did choose to elope with you, you’d have to drop dead in the next second, because no mortal could endure that much good luck.”

Ralph laughed at him, but took the tickets eagerly enough. “All right, then, Harry. Ginny and I will be thinking of you stuck underground while we watch the Harpies trounce the Falcons and discuss plans for our elopement.”

Harry shot him a certain salute with one hand while he continued to write his report with the other.

*

From the moment he circled into the sky over the pitch, Draco knew he _owned_ this game.

His mate’s presence was like a beacon in the crowd. Just knowing Potter was there, even if he couldn’t see him, filled him with a clear light, thicker and stronger than the sun. Draco could feel every movement before he made it, and he knew where the Bludgers were coming from and who they’d strike. Seeker reflexes combined with that made sure he was out of reach of every collision before it happened.

The Snitch was laughably easy to find. He could have captured it in the first five minutes and won the game. Instead, he circled idly, making playful dashes now and then to convince the Harpies’ Seeker that he’d spotted it, and to thrill the crowd. Most of his imagination, since he didn’t need it for the match, was concentrated on what Potter would be feeling and thinking as he watched him.

He wanted to laugh whenever he caught himself thinking those thoughts. Why should he _care_ what Potter thought of him? He had more than that to worry about. He had the better games and the peaceful life with Pansy that, even if Potter had made them possible for him, were blessedly free of his presence.

Perhaps the Veela had more to do with his behavior lately than he realized.

Draco scowled and urged his broom into a dive. He didn’t feel driven to seek Potter out and hump his hand, which was enough evidence for him. What he really wanted were the side-effects of his presence. It was no different than tolerating the company of one of Pansy’s boring socialite friends for the sake of the good reputation she could give him in circles where the Malfoy name was still more mocked than revered. He didn’t need the Veela to show him what a good idea it could be, cultivating Potter’s acquaintance.

_But if you grow dependent on it, what will happen when the year is over?_

Draco pushed the thought away. He would tire of Potter long before then, he was sure. He would not have to worry about it. And he would find ways to subdue the Veela’s influence in his life.

He dodged fellow teammates and the other Seeker’s dogged pursuit with an effortless grace that he knew had never been in him before, and once, when he performed a complex maneuver to escape a Bludger, he thought he glanced back and glimpsed the shadows of wings growing from his shoulders.

But he was still himself, Draco Malfoy, and he still wanted to wring every advantage from anyone else that he could. 

That comforted him.

At last, his own team had scored two hundred points with the Quaffle, and he thought it time to catch the Snitch and—

_Impress Potter—_

—show Branwen that she was wrong to be suspicious of him. He leaned off the broom, spun in a tight circle, held up a palm, and let the Snitch smack home in it. It was so neatly done that, for long moments, no one seemed to realize Draco had won the game.

Then the announcer shouted frantically, and Draco’s teammates came up to hug him, nearly slamming him off his broom in the process, exclaiming and embracing his shoulders. Draco nodded in response to the compliments and offered clipped words when he absolutely had to. His eyes were scanning restlessly across the green grass of the Quidditch Pitch, seeking for eyes that were greener than that grass in the crowd. And if that last thought was a touch of the Veela sentiment, he didn’t care.

Finally, he saw a flash of red that couldn’t be anything but the she-Weasel’s hair, and snorted. It would be _like_ Potter to have bought a ticket for his wife so she could join him at the match, even though Draco’s invitation had excluded her as much as possible.

And beside her, on his feet and cheering loudly, was Potter’s Auror partner.

Potter wasn’t with them.

Draco felt all his smug accomplishment turn to glass in his head and fall down in ringing shards. His hand sagged open limply, letting the Snitch fly away. Luckily, the Harpies’ Seeker grabbed it before it went far, as if the late catch were enough to make up for having lost the game.

One of his teammates asked him what was wrong, one of the Chasers, but the face was little more than a smear of color, the voice only a bray across his senses. Draco shook his head and skimmed back across the Pitch towards the showers. He hoped the warm water would help clear his head.

It didn’t. Even when he stood with the water beating down on him so hard that he nearly staggered under the fall, he felt betrayal burning in his throat, sour as acid. Pansy could have been on her knees in front of him at that moment, offering to deep-throat him, and it wouldn’t have helped.

_I wanted you to come, damn you!_ he raged in silence at Potter. _Why didn’t you come?_

Of course, he’d still played well. That might prove he didn’t need to visit Potter often to experience the heightened senses and the mental clarity that came from just one touch—

But Draco didn’t care. He wanted to force Potter to _see_ him, because if he had to suffer through ages of humiliation because of this stupid accident, then Potter should have to suffer, too. And he’d given the tickets to his wife and partner because he couldn’t be bothered to _see_ Draco.

_Where is he?_ Draco snarled to himself as he dried his hair with a few flickering spells and then cast a Disillusionment Charm on himself, so that he could pass out of the locker rooms without his teammates or a maddened fan catching a glimpse of him.

There were two major possibilities: the house he owned with his wife, and his office at the Ministry. Draco suspected the wards on the house would keep him out, so he chose to believe Potter was at the one place he could access.

Grimly, he walked until he was clear of the various protection spells placed around the Pitch to stop fans from interfering with the game, and then Apparated.

*

Harry sat back with a sigh of satisfaction and rubbed the bridge of his nose under his glasses. That was the last report finished, and now Kingsley would have less reason ever to glare when he made his traditional Monday-morning inspection. Harry did regret having to give up a Saturday afternoon to do this, but it wasn’t as though he had anything more important planned.

The door of his office vibrated with a pounding fist. Harry glanced up, surprised, one hand falling to the wand at his waist.

The door burst open, and Malfoy stood revealed, snarling. He stalked towards Harry’s desk, his face melting and changing, an apparition of the Veela rising above his shoulders and head like the Aurora Borealis. Harry sought for something human in that expression, and didn’t find it. And Malfoy was crossing the floor between them _awfully_ quickly.

But Harry wasn’t in the Hermes Corps for nothing. He deflected the first hex Malfoy cast at him with an instinctive Shield Charm, and then coolly Body-Bound him to the far wall. The Body-Bind didn’t take as well as it would have normally, which Harry attributed to either his own surprise or the Veela manifesting in Malfoy. But it held his limbs and shoulders still, luckily, though he could twist his head and cry out in an inhuman voice. The shadow of a beak flitted about his face, though it vanished when Harry spoke.

“What the _fuck_ , Malfoy?”

Malfoy’s eyes snapped open, and he ground his teeth together with an audible sound. “I sent you tickets for the Falcons’ game, Potter,” he said. “And then you _weren’t there._ ” From the tone of his voice, this was a betrayal equal to Harry digging up his parents’ bodies and desecrating them.

Harry stared for a few moments in perplexity, then stood and shook his head. The motion made Malfoy tense up again. His eyes shone, but with rage, not the Veela’s unnatural silver light. Harry was grateful for small favors. That might mean the prat would listen to him.

“Since when does Draco Malfoy care if I do or do not watch his games?” he asked.

No immediate response came; they both stared at each other in silence. Then, slowly, as if someone had attached a lead weight to the nape of his neck, Malfoy let his head sink backwards. It sagged against the wall, and he took a few deep, rasping breaths.

“That’s right,” Harry said, as calmly as he could. “ _You_ don’t care. The Veela does, but that can be resisted. Remember, Malfoy, we’re doing this so we can keep our normal lives. And after this year, this part of you will fade away and not bother you again except in nightmares. That’s true, isn’t it?” He’d contacted a specialist in Veela in the Department of Mysteries, and she’d told him that, in those cases where Veela could, for some reason, resist bonding to their mates immediately, the animal urges would eventually leave them alone.

Malfoy didn’t reply.

“You have a strong will,” Harry said, reluctantly. “I know you. You—you didn’t want to do what you did sixth year, but you kept persisting, against impossible odds, until you fixed the Vanishing Cabinet.” He hated referring to anything that touched on Dumbledore’s death, but it was necessary, and he owed more obligations to the living than the dead. Besides, Dumbledore certainly wouldn’t have minded Harry using memories connected to him like this. He had wanted to save Malfoy, Harry remembered. “You can do this, too.” He turned around and strode to the bookshelf on the far side of the room, retrieving a few pamphlets that waited there. “I thought you might want these,” he added, taking them back and showing them to Malfoy. “They’re pamphlets on mind control and possession, and techniques for resisting them.”

Malfoy laughed without sound, his eyes boring into Harry’s. “They’re _Ministry_ literature. Which makes them worth less than the ink used to print them.”

Harry shook his head patiently. “That’s what the pamphlets distributed to the general public are like, yes. But these are meant for Hermes Corps use. A lot of the criminals we hunt are proficient in the Imperius Curse.” He held them forwards. “I think these might help you.” Keeping a wary eye on Malfoy, he waved his wand to free his hands from the Body-Bind.

Malfoy reached out and awkwardly accepted the pamphlets, studying them with only one eye. He kept the other on Harry.

And there was a longing in it that made Harry sigh and take a step away. “Come on, Malfoy,” he said. “I _know_ you’re strong-willed, but you have to _use_ that will, remember? Use it now. Put the Veela away.”

“I can’t,” said Malfoy, his voice cracking. “I tried. But in its view, you broke a promise. It needs—something from you.”

Harry snorted and folded his arms. The skin of his cheek burned where the Veela had touched him. He didn’t want that to happen again. “If you think I’ll wank you off in the middle of my office, where anyone could walk in—“

“Not that.” Malfoy shook his head. “It wouldn’t take sex as a return for a broken promise. Unless you’ll allow it to pleasure you?”

Harry sneered a bit. “No.”

“I didn’t think so.” Malfoy narrowed his eyes as if he were peering into strong sunlight. “It needs—words. Something you’ve never told anyone else. Something you haven’t even shared with your wife.”

Harry stiffened. Something had immediately come to mind, but—“If I kept it from Ginny, why should I share it with _that_ thing?”

“Because it needs it,” said Malfoy, and his eyes were intense again, shimmering with light from another sun. “Please, Potter. Please.” He let his head fall back again. “You don’t know what this is like, having it in you, choking your will and turning your thoughts towards contemplation of someone you hate.”

Reluctantly, Harry had to acknowledge that was true. “I don’t suppose it can be something trivial?” he asked.

“No,” Malfoy said, voice breathy, but not the way Harry had heard it when he was gasping to recover from a powerful orgasm. He sounded as if he were trying to climb a hill with stones tethered to his ankles. “Please. Just—something emotionally significant, something you didn’t tell her. It needs to know part of you belongs to it that belongs to no one else. _Please_ , Potter!”

It was the last cry that did it. Harry swallowed several times, then nodded. “All right. But you’ll swear to secrecy, Malfoy. If I see a _hint_ of this in the _Daily Prophet_ , I’ll put a curse on you that lasts longer than a year.” He clutched his wand, feeling his palm sweat. “You won’t have a night of sleep again without bad dreams.”

* 

The rising tide of compulsion that had drowned his will reversed itself. Draco gasped, his head sagging forwards, and raised his eyes to Potter’s face. “I promise,” he said. “How would I explain how I learned it, anyway? We’re hardly supposed to entertain a friendly regard for one another.”

Potter only shrugged, as if to say that he was sure Draco would find some way to explain his perfidy. He clenched his hands in front of him, and then said, “I’ll tell you about the way Ron and Hermione died.”

Draco snapped to startled attention. He only knew that Weasley and Granger had died, not how. Potter hadn’t wanted to speak about it, and though Draco had assumed the story was more common among Potter’s friends, the rumors he caught made it clear that none of _them_ knew the exact details, either.

He licked his lips and arranged himself against the wall in his strange position, half-Body-Bound, as comfortably as he could. “So talk, Potter.”

 

“Voldemort captured Ron, Hermione, and me a few weeks before the final battle. Or, at least, the Lestrange brothers did.” He flicked Draco a look of resentment, as though he couldn’t forgive him for having an aunt who had married a Lestrange. Draco gave as much of a shrug as he could with his shoulders still frozen. It was not _his_ fault, what his mother’s family had done before he was even born.

 

“I don’t know if they ever told Voldemort we were there, or if he told them to torture us as they liked until he had time for a grand spectacle.” Potter ran a hand down his face. “They used the Cruciatus Curse and a few other pain spells for a while, but they tired of that.”

 

He closed his eyes and shuddered. “At last one of them had the bright idea to kill Ron and Hermione; they didn’t really need them alive, but I think Voldemort wanted to kill me in front of as many of his Death Eaters as he could manage, not in private. There would always be doubts about whether I was really dead.”

 

“Yes,” Draco said, unwillingly. He had spent most of the war under Snape’s care in his isolated home at Spinner’s End, but he’d heard that, over and over, at the rare Death Eater meetings he attended: the Dark Lord wanted Potter. He would be satisfied with nothing less than a messy torture and execution in front of everyone who could possibly be assembled, including innocent bystanders. The wizards and witches who saw the death would then be released to spread the word and deprive the masses of their hope.

 

If Draco had ever doubted the Dark Lord was mad, and cruel with it, he would have doubted no longer, after hearing him gleefully plot the death of a boy Draco had known from the time he was eleven.

 

Potter merely nodded, but not as if he’d heard Draco, more as if he were responding to a voice within his own head. His eyes had gone wide and glassy. Draco shifted uneasily.

 

“So they cast a curse on me, and on them.” Potter cleared his throat. “Have you ever heard of the Pyrrhic Victory Curse?”

 

Draco shook his head. He had to admit that _he_ , not only the Veela, was interested in finding out what had really happened.

 

Potter shut his eyes. “They had us in a cave,” he said, “a rough little chamber with no windows, brick walls and floor, and only one entrance. They pushed water and food through the door. Then they cast the Pyrrhic Victory Curse on us.

 

“It filled me with this—mad desire to eat and drink. A little like the Veela you bear, I suppose. And every time I took a bite or swallowed a gulp of water, something happened to Ron or Hermione.”

 

“What happened?” Draco whispered. He didn’t know if he was asking for the Veela’s sake or his own.

 

“It depended,” Potter said. His eyes were fiercely shut now, as if to hold tears at bay. “Broken bones. Internal injuries. Loss of toes, or fingers. Hermione went blind when I ate a whole piece of bread. Ron lost his magic when I finished the apples they’d left. But I lived, and grew stronger. That’s why the curse has the name it has; the person it’s cast on always lives, but the price of his victory is the death of the others named in the curse.”

 

Draco tried to imagine it. He couldn’t, maybe because he couldn’t think of two people, other than his parents, whose deaths would have distressed him that much. He licked his lips and said, “Could you—fight the desire to eat and drink at all?”

 

“For days at a time,” said Potter. “And then I’d give in, and something else would happen. 

 

“Finally, Hermione—Ron was in a coma by then—told me it had to end. I asked her how, since we didn’t have our wands, and any damage I tried to inflict on myself would only have rebounded on them. She—“ Potter’s voice cracked.

 

And Draco found that he knew the ending of the story.

 

“She made you kill her and Weasley,” he said softly.

 

“Yes,” said Potter. “I was strong enough to do that, and I think it was the one thing they—never thought I’d do. So there were no protections built into the spell against it. I st—strangled them.”

 

And then he was silent, his breath heaving wild, uncontrolled. Draco stared at him in silence. The Veela had retreated completely, as if, having heard what it had been promised, it had no more interest in its mate for the moment.

 

For Draco, it was a revelation. He no longer really wondered that Potter had made the bargain he had. If he was strong enough to kill his two best friends, he was strong enough to endure a year of touching someone who wasn’t his wife.

 

“How did you escape?” he asked.

 

Potter gave a dry laugh. “I ate and drank without stopping, then. When the Lestrange brothers came to replenish the food, I was strong enough to fight them bare-handed and take my wand back. And then I killed them—“

 

Draco thought he wouldn’t ask how they died.

 

“—and I went to face Voldemort.”

 

He fell silent again. Draco waited until he saw Potter’s shoulders stop shaking, and knew he had wrestled himself back under control. 

 

Potter’s face and voice were both very calm when he told Draco, “I haven’t told Ginny this because it would hurt her so much. And I mean it, Malfoy. One word, one hint of a rumor of a whisper—“

“I promise, Potter.” It wasn’t hard for Draco to make that promise. He couldn’t say that he liked Potter, even now, but that story had brought him close to something that resembled respect.

Potter gave a small nod, and then released the last of the Body-Bind on him. Draco stood up, dusted off his robes, and put the Ministry pamphlets on resisting possession and mind control in his pockets.

Then he walked towards Potter.

The other wizard tried to back up, putting the desk between them, but Draco simply put his hand on Potter’s cheek. Potter studied him warily. This close, Draco could plainly make out the shadows in the green eyes.

He couldn’t have otherwise. Potter had done an excellent job of recovering from his ordeal. 

Draco leaned in and kissed him lingeringly, without a hint of the passion the Veela always tried to force in, purely and solely because he wanted to. Potter remained stiff and unresponsive, but Draco didn’t mind that. He had no fear, now, that he didn’t matter to him. The sharing of the story of Weasley and Granger’s deaths had changed the atmosphere between them. Like it or not, they were now firmly linked.

And even Potter’s wife had never heard this.

“See you next month,” he whispered into Potter’s mouth, and then stepped back and departed. 


	4. March (Part One)

Draco pictured himself alone in a perfectly bare room. There were no doors or windows, no furniture, no carpets. Thick wards shimmered along the stone walls, preventing any house-elf from appearing. Soundproofing spells ensured no one would hear him from without, and he could hear no one. He sat there, and the loudest sound was his own breathing.

The Veela snarled in the back of his head and retreated.

Draco opened his eyes and smiled. The Ministry pamphlets Potter had given him worked surprisingly well. So long as he concentrated, he could bring the Veela under control, _and_ still enjoy the clearer perception of life and keener senses that contact with Potter had given him.

He gave a little stretch and rose to his feet. It was March third, as the calendar on the wall reminded him. He carefully examined his own level of desire to see Potter again, and was satisfied to find nothing more than ordinary anticipation, such as he might feel when Blaise came back from one of his trips around the world. Certainly it had nothing of the Veela’s level of drooling imbecility.

_If I could go a month without Potter’s touch, I would._

Content now, Draco turned to selecting his dress robes. His private bedroom made a perfect place to meditate in—Pansy never intruded—and it also had the advantage of containing all the clothes he would need for an evening at one of the parties Pansy was continually invited to. Draco had taken to practicing the meditation exercises the pamphlets recommended on the evenings before they attended one. It calmed him down enough to meet the people who variously looked as if they’d like to laugh and turn away when the name ‘Malfoy’ was mentioned.

He pulled on a set of dark blue dress robes edged with silver, and then performed a charm that made his rather windblown blond hair lie flatter and tamer. Pansy complained that grooming magic cheated, and there was nothing like letting house-elves dress one, but Draco had spent the morning listening to Branwen lecture the team and then half the afternoon flying in a high wind. If he _had_ to attend a party instead of spending a quiet evening at home with his wife, then he would cheat.

His reflection in the mirror smiled approvingly at him, and the mirror crooned praise, too. Draco studied his face a moment. The marks of sleeplessness present last month, when he still spent a great deal of energy resenting his status as Potter’s mate, had faded entirely, and he looked like someone who _should_ be standing in a room like this, with gleaming oak and mahogany furnishings behind him, windowsills made of sculpted dragons’ claws, and portraits on the walls of distinguished ancestors.

Pansy knocked on the door. “Are you decent?” she called.

“Yes,” Draco called back casually, and then turned with a dramatic flourish that made his robes swirl in the mirror, clothing him in a mantle of starry sky, like Merlin. He gave another smile, this one nearly involuntary, and opened the door. Pansy promptly spread her robes and turned in a slow circle, letting him look all he liked.

“You’re very striking,” he told her. And she was. Her wispy blonde hair—permanently enchanted to that color from the brown hair of her youth—was piled up on her head, and her dress robes were one of those deep colors, neither brown nor blue, that shimmered with darker shades in the light and yet didn’t make her pale skin look washed-out. Among other things, his wife knew how to dress. He held out his arm. “Shall we?”

“Of course,” said Pansy. She looked at him critically for a moment, with sharp dark eyes, and then deigned to allow her arm to rest atop his. Draco blinked a bit, but the scrutiny amused him more than anything. Since he and Pansy had none of that silly love nonsense to act as a barrier between them, they quite often used honesty with each other, and he was sure Pansy was about to comment on his use of grooming charms.

Instead, she said, “I understand the news about Potter is disturbing, Draco, but try to act normal tonight.”

Draco blinked a bit more. Then he shrugged. Perhaps she thought he would drift dreamily off into a reverie about Potter, which had happened a few times when the Veela was still taking over his body. But it had stopped doing that since he started the meditation exercises. “Of course, Pansy,” he said.

She examined him for a moment more, then graced him with one of her rare open smiles. “You’re handling this remarkably well,” she said, as she drew out the Portkey that would take them to Mrs. Zabini’s exclusive party to welcome her son back home. “I don’t think Lucius would have had _nearly_ your calm.”

Draco smiled. Pansy was the only one who could tease him about his parents and get away with it.

“I don’t think he would have been sane enough to _understand_ any of it in the last year of his life,” he remarked dryly.

Pansy let out a high-pitched giggle. The Veela thought her voice sounded wrong, but Draco pictured the stone room briefly, and the Veela went away. “No, perhaps not,” she said, as she closed both their hands around the broken guitar string she held. “And what about your mother, dear?”

“She would have told me to do what was socially acceptable first, safe second, and morally right if I had the time for it,” Draco murmured. He _did_ miss his mother. She had gone a bit mad without Lucius, he believed, and volunteered for the attack the Dark Lord had organized on Azkaban in the middle of the war. Of course, she had walked directly into an Auror’s wand; by then, the Aurors surrounded the wizarding prison day and night. Draco had sometimes suspected that it was his cousin, Nymphadora Tonks, who had killed her. He had never sought confirmation for that, though. Both his parents were ghosts now, and he had his own life to lead.

_No matter what obstacles might come up in the middle of it._

“You’re doing exactly that,” Pansy told him, and then the Portkey whirled them away.

*

“Terrible, this thing that happened with Potter, isn’t it?”

Draco turned around with a glass of water in his hand—he didn’t drink anything when he had practice in the morning, because Branwen _would_ smell her players’ breath—and a neutral expression on his face. It was Blaise speaking, and though Draco couldn’t think Pansy would have let any part of this unfortunate business with Potter slip to him, Blaise might have the means to find out on his own.

Blaise regarded him above his own glass of wine, his eyes narrowed and twinkling in the same damn way Dumbledore’s used to do. At nineteen, he had inherited a fortune from an uncle no one had ever heard of and promptly begun a distinguished career of world-wandering, debauchery, and capturing exotic magical creatures for zoos and collections in Britain. He wore some sort of form-fitting magical robe he claimed was common in America; to Draco it simply looked like an excuse to get away with bad taste and have glamours of stars winking on his clothes, a style that had gone out of fashion with the generation before their parents’. He also had a set of cards proclaiming him, “Blaise Zabini: World Traveler.” Draco had had an uneasy friendship with Blaise in school, and now he thought him alternately amusing company and the most insufferable ponce alive.

“I don’t really know what you’re talking about,” Draco drawled, and took his own sip of water. “It doesn’t seem that terrible to _me_.” If Blaise had discovered Draco was a Veela, Draco was determined to ride out the revelation with his own utter unconcern.

Blaise’s face went through several very peculiar expressions very fast, and finally settled on incredulity. “I say, Draco,” he said, “I didn’t like the git in school either, but he _is_ a very distinguished Auror—“

Draco opened his mouth to comment that this was just the kind of thing Blaise _would_ say, but Blaise didn’t give him the chance.

“—and no one really deserves what happened today.” He shook his head meditatively. “It doesn’t sound like a good reflection on your name to hear you gloating over it, you know.”

For just a moment, Draco’s thoughts were occupied with the social warning. And then the Veela cried out anxiously in the back of his mind, and he felt his eyes narrow.

“What happened today?” he demanded.

“Now you’re just fucking with me,” Blaise said, and turned as if he would walk away.

Draco caught his arm and drew him into a secluded corner of the large room where the party took place. It was relatively easy; even though Blaise was nominally the guest of honor, most people concentrated more of their attention on his mother, now about to wed her ninth husband. A constellation of men and women surrounded the smiling, flirting beauty in the center of the room, most of them, Draco knew, taking bets on how soon her new spouse would die.

“I’ve been in Quidditch practice all day,” Draco hissed at him, “and then I had to get ready to come to this giddy thing. _Tell_ me what happened.”

Blaise stared at him for a few minutes, then seemed to decide that Draco’s intense curiosity simply came from being left out of the loop when news arrived. He shrugged and answered. “Potter’s wife is assistant flying coach at Hogwarts.”

Draco nodded tensely. The Veela’s cries were getting louder now, and he sincerely hoped he didn’t show the shadow of wings and beak.

“And today she tried to save some first-year from falling from a jinxed broom, and fell _herself_ , and broke her back.” Blaise took a sip of his wine and shrugged again, though Draco saw a shadow of regret in his eyes; he’d been attracted to Ginny Weasley himself, back in the day. “She’ll recover, eventually, but the internal injuries are going to be severe enough to keep her in bed for at least two weeks, according to the _Daily Prophet_. Potter had to rush to her side at once, of course, like the hero he is.”

The Veela’s intense, twinned emotions coiled around inside Draco’s stomach: jealousy for Potter’s inevitable concern for the bitch, indignation that his mate was suffering. Then he shook his head and reminded himself that Potter was the Veela’s mate, not his.

_Start thinking of those feelings as your own, and you’re lost._

“They took her to St. Mungo’s, I suppose?” he asked, and forced himself to take a drink of his water, as though it could soothe the ache in the back of his throat.

Blaise laughed. “No. Some nonsense about how she was too injured to be moved, so she’s in the infirmary at Hogwarts. There’s no such thing as too injured to be moved, though.” He leaned nearer. “Now, did I tell you about the time I broke a leg in the Mexican desert and had to drag myself to safety? I wouldn’t have succeeded if I was worried about internal injuries. I—“

Draco smiled mechanically, and gave the right, mechanical responses, as he listened to a story he’d heard Blaise repeat several times before. His mind was with Potter. He imagined him sitting at his wife’s bedside, listening to Madam Pomfrey as she wittered on and on, his shoulders hunched with tension.

He wondered if Potter had someone to comfort him, take him away from the bed and insist he rest, make his excuses to his superiors at the Ministry—

Then he took a long swallow of water, and laughed politely at Blaise’s next story, and reminded himself that, whether Potter had someone to do that for him or not, it was not _his_ responsibility. He didn’t want to be more involved in Potter’s life than he had to be. He would not get involved.

He stayed at the party, and ate, and laughed, and talked, and circulated, and listened to some of Blaise’s new stories, and laid his own bet for how long Mrs. Zabini’s new husband would live. He ignored the fact that most of the food tasted like cinders in his mouth and that Pansy’s approving glances made him feel sick.

He sent Potter an owl when they arrived back at the Manor—just a short, one-line letter telling him he’d heard and was sorry. He _had_ to do it before the Veela would allow him a peaceful night’s sleep.

He received an answer in the morning, equally short and curt.

_Malfoy, thanks for your sympathy._

Potter hadn’t even bothered to sign it. But Draco still stood with the parchment held to his nose for a few seconds before it occurred to him what he was doing and he jerked his head backwards.

_I can’t give in to this. I won’t._

But his palms had begun to itch as if it were months since he had seen Potter instead of a few weeks, and the longing to Apparate to Hogwarts had already settled into his bones.

*

“She’ll walk again, Mr. Potter.”

Harry allowed his eyelids to droop shut in sheer relief. He had asked Madam Pomfrey the questions hours ago, but she hadn’t been able to answer it then; she’d had to cast spells that floated the bone splinters of Ginny’s legs back together and then bound them in place. The splinters could have been too small for the magic to find, and she hadn’t dared to use Skele-Gro, she explained, because there would be no way of knowing that the bones were gone completely, as was required for the potion to work.

Harry could hear Hermione’s voice whispering in his head, talking about incurable maladies and wounds that couldn’t be healed by magic. Ginny could have had one of those.

But she hadn’t. She wouldn’t be paralyzed for the rest of her life, or made to look on wistfully from the ground while young children did better than she could at the flying she’d made her life.

“Thank you, Madam Pomfrey,” he said quietly, and took his wife’s hand.

She had been awake only for short, scattered periods of time in the three days since the accident, partially because of shock and pain and partially because of the spells and potions the mediwitch had had to use. Bandages still wrapped her chest, and her skin was so pale that her freckles looked like dots of blood. Her chest still rose and fell, though. So long as he could see that, Harry would have some hope.

The moments after the accident had been the worst. Ralph had caught the memo bearing the message for Harry while he was in the loo. He’d come back to find Ralph looking as if he were about to sick up, and had to shout and shake the man several times before he’d say what was wrong. And then Harry had to sit still and take several deep breaths so that he wouldn’t try to Apparate straight through the wards at the Ministry and give both himself and everyone else in the building a heart attack.

His journey here was a brew full of shattered glimpses: McGonagall’s solemn face; Ralph clutching his arm and telling him earnestly that he’d let Kingsley know the situation; owls swarming and flying about him before the Headmistress had adjusted the school’s wards so that only owls from individuals not connected with the newspapers could find their way to Harry. And since then it had been Madam Pomfrey, and snatched bits of sleep when he could, and quiet little talks with the professors, nearly all of whom had stopped by to offer sympathy.

And Ginny.

Ginny, Ginny, Ginny.

She gave a little shiver, and made a soft mewling sound of pain. Harry leaned closer to her, his shoulders hunched. He had learned, long before this, the helplessness of seeing someone you loved in pain and being unable to do anything about it, but he had never known it so acutely. He _had_ been able to do something for Ron and Hermione in the end. He could go out and arrest the people who did horrible things to innocents, since he was an Auror. But he could do nothing here save stay out of the way and try not to bother Madam Pomfrey too much.

Ginny stirred then, and opened her eyes. She tried to smile at Harry, but it slid off her face. “Can I have some water?” she asked softly.

“Of course,” Harry murmured, and reached for the cup that Madam Pomfrey had left on the nearby table, never taking his eyes from his wife’s face. She was putting a brave front on it—she’d even smiled again—but he could see the pain in the set of her jaw.

Ginny drank quietly, and then settled back against the pillow. For a moment, she blinked as though she were trying to think of questions to ask. But her eyes shut and her grip on his hand weakened as she dropped back into sleep.

Harry put his head on the blankets and closed his eyes.

*

Draco couldn’t take his eyes off him.

McGonagall had been somewhat reluctant to let him into the school, but even she knew that he’d been cleared of all charges during the Seven-Day Trials in the wake of the war, and there had never been a declaration _saying_ he couldn’t set foot on Hogwarts grounds again. She had finally permitted him to Floo in, and from there he’d found his way to the hospital wing.

The Potters were behind a section of wards that kept them protected from sounds and also, Draco thought, prevented curious students from peering in. Even he had to squint to see through the shimmer of the spells, and he was a fully trained adult wizard.

Weasley was asleep. Potter lay with his face on the blankets, most of his body supported by a chair. He had what Draco didn’t doubt was three days’ worth of stubble on his face, and his eyes were tightly shut, lines of pain and suffering drawn around them.

_He’s bearing it._

_He always bears it, I think. But it isn’t fair that he should have to._

Draco wanted to scoff and shake his head. Since when did he care about fairness? But the fact that he was here at all, let alone staring at a married man like some lovesick teenager, proved that his convictions had already started to change. The Veela had brought him here, but it had retreated to a frightened croon in the back of his mind as soon as it saw that its mate hadn’t suffered any bodily injury. It was up to Draco to decide what he wanted to do now.

He stepped forwards cautiously, still debating in his own head. Perhaps he could just watch for long enough to content the Veela and then retreat, which would obviate the need for any confrontation.

He’d forgotten about Potter’s Auror instincts. He whipped around immediately, probably seeing something moving in the corner of his eye even beneath the shut lids. He had his wand in his hand, and his gaze was grim, filled with a blazing determination that took Draco’s breath away. Unbidden, the thought came to him that Potter had probably looked like this when he killed his best friends, or when he killed Voldemort.

“Potter,” he said quietly.

Potter recognized him in the same moment. He brought his wand down, blinked, and then let out what sounded like a sigh of annoyance. With one more glance at his wife, who slept on, he strode out of the wards around the bed and came up to Draco, his every movement sharp.

“Well?” he asked.

“Well what?” Draco asked, frowning. He was distracted by the realization that he could _smell_ Potter, and the Veela didn’t seem to have anything to do with it, other than the fact that it had given him sharper senses. The smell wasn’t arousing, simply present, insistent, worming into his face.

“How long should this take?” Potter asked brusquely. “I know a few empty classrooms we can use, as long as we put up strong wards to ensure no one can enter. But I’d like it not to take more than ten minutes. I have to get back to Ginny.”

Draco finally realized that Potter thought he’d come for their monthly jerk-off session. He twitched his lips, revolted.

“You don’t understand,” he said.

Potter gave him a look of utmost contempt. “Look, Malfoy, whatever game you’re playing, I don’t want to hear it. My wife nearly _died_ , all right? I don’t have any time for—“

“I didn’t come for that!” Draco hissed, unable to bear that Potter should think he could only think about his own needs. “I came because—I heard. I’m sorry,” he finished lamely, because now Potter was staring at him with surprise wiping out every other emotion.

Some moments passed in silence, while those blazing green eyes glared at Draco, and he felt as though his soul was picked up, turned around, and studied.

“But _why_?” Potter asked finally. “We’re not friends.”

“No,” Draco said, licking his lips. Now the need to put his arms around Potter was distracting him, and, to make it worse, he couldn’t tell whether it was the Veela’s desire or his own. He satisfied himself by leaning back a little, and shrugging. “I don’t think there’s a word for what we are.”

The Veela surged up in him, trying to take over his mouth and suggest that the appropriate word was _mates_. Draco pictured the bare stone room, and folded his arms. The Veela once again sank. “I really did just want to come and see you,” he added. “I’m sorry she fell off her broom.”

Potter regarded him a few moments longer, with a jaundiced eye. Then he gave a quick nod, as clipped as his first words had been. “Thanks, Malfoy,” he said, in the same tone of voice Draco had heard the letter in in his head when he read it. “We appreciate it.” He started to turn around again.

“Are you well?” Draco asked hastily. Potter turned back to him with his eyebrows up. “You look—tired.”

Potter snorted. “You have your wife in a hospital bed, and then tell me it’s _easy_.”

Draco shook his head and did his best to strike a casual pose. “I didn’t mean that,” he said. “But you have to rest too, Potter.”

“Madam Pomfrey’s taking care of that,” said Potter. “You can’t be around her without her making sure that you eat and sleep properly.” He shrugged. “It’s not easy, no, but we’ll make it. Thanks,” he added, and this time there was an undertone of sincerity in his voice that made the Veela unfold like a flower.

Draco controlled it with more difficulty this time, because instead of sexual desire it flooded him with affection. He hoped his eyes and voice were sufficiently hard as he nodded to Potter and said, “I do hope she gets better, Potter.”

And this time Potter smiled, and said, probably just because he wanted to tell someone, “Madam Pomfrey says she’ll walk again.”

The smile struck the Veela like a blow, and sent it reeling down into dizzy, gleeful silence. Draco remained alone to nod, and fiddle with the edge of his dress robes. “That’s good,” he said.

“Thanks,” Potter said yet again, and this time he hesitated, then reached out and put his hand on Draco’s elbow. Draco gasped. The tiredness burning at the edges of his vision dissipated like smoke. He blinked and focused on Potter only slowly.

“Why?” he whispered.

Potter shrugged. “You looked like you needed it.” And he turned and walked back to the hospital bed, vanishing behind the wards again. This time, Draco thought he’d strengthened them, because it abruptly became harder to see him or his wife.

Too bad, because Draco had been about to ask him if he always did things people needed.

_And who gives him what he needs?_ He immediately scolded himself for the thought, and left the hospital wing as quietly and quickly as he could.

*

“ _Stupid_ things!” Ginny said as, for the fiftieth time, the crutches slipped out from under her arms and nearly sent her sprawling to the floor, which she was spared only by Harry’s quick use of a Levitation Charm.

Harry grinned at her. He knew she found the constant almost-falls tiresome, but he hadn’t got to that point. His wife was _walking_ again, even if she had difficulty managing the crutches yet. “You’ll get the hang of it,” he said encouragingly, and floated the crutches back into their proper positions as she spread her arms. “First hobbling, then walking, then flying—“

Ginny made a strangled noise in her throat and turned her head away. Harry paused, frowning. He’d seen her make that motion some other times when he or one of her brothers talked about flying, but he hadn’t questioned her about it before. She had enough work to do with recovering in the last three weeks. Now, though, he thought he had to ask.

“Ginny?”

She remained still until Harry got up to stand in front of her, grip her chin, and tilt it back. Then he saw her eyes glinting with tears. He nearly wrapped his arms around her before he remembered that her spine was fragile and shouldn’t be handled unless necessary. He settled for speaking her name again, gently.

“You’ll find out sooner or later, I suppose,” she said dully, turning her head away from him. Her eyes moved around the familiar furnishings of their house as if she didn’t recognize them. “I’m afraid of flying,” she said.

Harry blinked for a long moment. Then he said, “You don’t want to get back on a broom again?”

She nodded, red hair hanging around her face.

“Because of the fall?” Harry asked.

A second nod.

Harry kissed her. “That’s no reason to be ashamed, Gin,” he said softly. “Why should it be? You don’t need to work for a while; you shouldn’t anyway, since you’re recovering. And you can always get another job.” He didn’t mention her not working at all. Early on in their marriage they’d sat down and talked it out, and decided that, even though Harry’s money meant neither of them _needed_ to work, they were both happier when they were busy. “It doesn’t need to be teaching kids how to fly brooms.”

Ginny mumbled something. Harry lifted her face so that her hair was away from her lips and asked her to repeat it.

“I thought you would be ashamed of me,” Ginny whispered. “You’re _never_ afraid, Harry. You _always_ do the right thing. And I love you for it, but it’s awfully hard to live up to you, sometimes.”

Harry simply tightened his hold on her chin, in silence. What could he say? He got afraid, like everyone did, but it was true that it didn’t much affect his day-to-day life with Ginny. And as for doing the right thing…he didn’t know if doing everything perfectly for the rest of his life would be enough to make up for the mistakes he made as a child and a teenager.

But even then, he didn’t think of it that way very often. He’d forced himself to heal, not brood—pick up the burden and go on, when everything in him had wanted simply to stop living. And doing the right thing was part of that life. He would be unhappy if he acted the way his Slytherin side sometimes wanted him to act.

This was just the way he _was_.

“You never need to worry about that,” he whispered into her ear. “We’re different people, Ginny. I couldn’t bear being bedridden as patiently as you have, you know. You were almost a saint. I would have been trying to cast spells on the second day, fighting the sleeping potions on the third, and hitting everyone with my crutches by this time.”

Ginny let out a stifled laugh. Her hands roamed over his robes now, clenching and relaxing. “I thought you would insist that I get back up on the broom,” she whispered back. “That there was nothing to be afraid of.”

“Of course not,” Harry said. “ _I_ would do that, but you’re not me.” He didn’t know how to make that clear, except to keep repeating it. “I don’t expect people to be exactly like me. If there was ever a recipe for disappointment, it’s that one.”

Ginny closed her eyes, and a few tears slipped out. Harry kissed them away.

He was just opening his mouth to talk a bit further on the same subject when their fireplace flared. Harry gently set Ginny on the couch, and turned to face the fire. He was startled to see Pansy’s face appear in the flames.

“Does Malfoy need me?” he asked, moving forwards.

“Yes,” Pansy said without ceremony. “The idiot has decided to be _noble_ , at exactly the wrong time, and now he’s too weak to leave his room.” Her green head rolled its eyes. “I rather hate having you in the house this late, Potter, but needs must.”

Harry nodded, and looked back at Ginny. She gave him a tired smile, her crutches folded around her like broken wings.

“I’ll be all right,” she said. “I won’t try to walk while you’re gone.” She waved him off when he still hesitated. “Like I said,” she added, almost beneath her breath. “You always do the right thing.”

Harry would have stopped to question her about the emotion in her voice that was nearly bitterness, but Malfoy needed him. He blew Ginny a kiss, and then took up a handful of Floo powder from the bowl on the mantle and tossed it into the fire.


	5. March (Part 2)

“He’s in his bedroom,” Pansy had said. “No, not the one that you used before. His own.” She had shrugged when Harry simply looked at her. “I don’t enter it,” she said. “That was a bargain we made a long time ago, when we first married. Private space. He doesn’t intrude into mine, either.”

Her voice had said she didn’t appreciate telling an outsider this much about her married life, and Harry could hardly blame her; he wouldn’t have wanted to tell someone this much about his marriage with Ginny. So he’d nodded, and now he stood inside Malfoy’s bedroom, staring at him, appalled.

He’d never seen Malfoy look this disheveled and worn-down, even the time he caught him in the girls’ loo in sixth year and subsequently slashed his chest up with _Sectumsempra_. Malfoy had at least been able to wield his wand then, and try to use an Unforgivable Curse on Harry in return. Now he looked as though he couldn’t have cast _Lumos._

His skin had turned literally translucent in some places, and not far from it in others, so that Harry could make out the blue of veins and the shadow of bones. His hair looked like straw, and crackled like it when he stirred restlessly on the pillows, too. His breathing was fast, harsh, and short. And then abruptly he uttered a hideous cry that made the hair on the back of Harry’s neck stand up.

He didn’t think much further about what needed to be done. He crossed the few paces of carpet that separated the bed and him, and laid his hand on Malfoy’s shoulder.

*

Draco had floated in flames so long, flames made of his own desires and the Veela’s longing for its mate, that he barely recognized cool water when it arrived. A slight lessening of the pain was not enough to make him sit up and take any notice. He turned his head in that direction. It was all he could manage. Perhaps Pansy had spoken Potter’s name. That helped sometimes.

And then the cool pressure returned, dimming the flames, even changing some of them so they didn’t hurt, and became just ordinary, aching, human sexual need. Potter’s voice said, “Malfoy?”

_Oh, God. He’s here. It’s real, and he’s here._

Draco answered with a wordless cry. He heard Potter flinch when he gave it; he knew his voice wasn’t human any more. He suspected it sounded like the shriek of some giant bird. But he was as helpless to prevent that as he was his arms from rising and closing around Potter, dragging him fully onto the bed. Potter let out a rough gasp, and then his chest rested against Draco’s, his legs against his legs, his arms pushing at his arms.

The flames stopped burning.

Draco could see past his own feverish imaginings again, and when he kissed Potter, the last of the pain vanished.

Potter gasped again, and Draco’s tongue found entrance to his mouth. It felt so good that Draco was afraid he might cry, except that he was too busy to cry; he had dragged Potter’s outer robe halfway down his shoulders with one hand, while keeping his head in place with the other so he could kiss, and kiss, and kiss. The hard angles of a male body, which he had once feared would feel so strange, were now the only thing that would save him.

After a moment, Potter moved above him. He murmured a spell, and Draco’s clothes vanished. Then he rolled to the side, and Draco found himself abruptly resting braced on his elbows, while Potter knelt beside him and reached down towards his erection, which had been tormenting him for almost two days now.

Draco arched his neck, and cried out when Potter touched him. Then he said, “It won’t be enough.”

Potter’s hand paused a moment. Draco didn’t care. To have contact with his mate’s rough palm and callused fingers was enough for the moment. “What won’t be?” Potter asked into his ear, and Draco turned his head to kiss him again. Potter permitted it, though his eyes were shuttered and wary, not the blazing green Draco remembered from the Hogwarts hospital wing and wanted to see focused on this task.

“It was—too long,” Draco said. The Veela surged about in him, too uncoordinated to take over his muscles but strong enough that Draco had no doubt about what it wanted. “I subdued it too much with—those pamphlets you lent me. It—wants to touch you, too— _ah_!” Potter’s hand had slipped along his cock, perhaps only because he was startled, and that simple motion made Draco thrust. With an enormous effort, he gained control of his hips and stopped himself. “Take off your clothes, Potter.” At least he didn’t have to look at the git when he said that.

“I can’t—“

“Yes, you can,” said Draco, letting some of the Veela into his voice after all. “Because you said you’d do what you needed to do so we can go back to our normal lives when all this is done.” He lowered his tone and rolled back against Potter, doing his best to urge him into hardness with hips and waist. “We won’t be sleeping together, but you have to let me bring you off. _Do it_ , Harry.”

*

Harry shut his eyes. For a long moment, he made himself conscious of nothing but Malfoy’s panting and his dangerous thinness.

He had to do this. Malfoy—the _thing_ —was right.

Grimacing in distaste, he waved his wand again and murmured the same charm he’d used on Malfoy, divesting himself of clothing.

Malfoy’s skin on his felt like a revelation. There was so much, and it was so _warm_. With effort, Harry convinced himself to think of that as the heat of fever, and not listen to his libido. An image of Malfoy as he’d been when Harry entered the room flared up in front of his eyes, and he nodded. Yes, that was why he was here, solely to let Malfoy have what solace he needed.

He eased his hand back into place around Malfoy’s cock, and set a furious pace. Maybe, if that worked well enough, he would entirely consume and exhaust the Veela’s enthusiasm in its own orgasm, and not have to reciprocate.

It was _hard_ not to wish for reciprocation, though, and Harry’s mind was on the point of handing him dirty puns about his own choice of words. Malfoy kept gasping and muttering nonsense words, and so long as he only did that, Harry could forget about both how different his voice was from Ginny’s and how it felt to hear the git say his name. He bucked and twisted to the point that Harry had to work hard to keep his hand in place. The movements brought a lot of smooth, pale, almost hairless skin sliding under Harry’s arm, and that, too, was warmer than it should be.

 _With fever_ , Harry argued, and added a little twist at the end of his latest pulling motion that he thought he remembered Malfoy enjoying.

Malfoy shrieked, sounding like a strangled cat, and then turned around and latched his mouth onto Harry’s. Then he rolled, pushing off the bed with a motion Harry definitely didn’t remember being used in Quidditch, and pinned Harry beneath him, almost on the edge of the bed. He tossed his head back, eyes shut, his face tight as if in pain, but he evidently wasn’t so focused that his own hand couldn’t find its way to Harry’s cock.

“Malfoy, damn it—“

 _Shit_. The Veela’s touch had the same effect it had when it kissed Harry and touched his cheek; warmth encircled him, and Harry felt his vision go gray with pleasure. He uttered a strangled cry in turn, and forced his eyes open to see that Malfoy was watching him now. Maybe the Veela glitter was in his gaze; the position of Harry’s head and the generally dim lighting made it impossible to tell.

“That’s it, Harry,” Malfoy whispered in a voice that sounded far too human. “Been holding back from me—that won’t happen anymore—“ And then his hand moved in a single, long stroke.

Wondering dazedly who in the world could sound that coherent when in the middle of a wank, Harry began pulling on Malfoy’s erection again. Malfoy uttered a pleased growling sound and dipped to kiss him. For a moment, he seemed to forget about his own hand.

And then he didn’t, and Harry’s world was a blur of heat and sweat and trying simultaneously to get Malfoy to come and avoid coming himself. The position was awkward, and he had constant reminders of the fact that this wasn’t Ginny on top of him. Beard stubble scraped along his face. Too much weight forced him into the bed. Strong hands held him prisoner, propelling his face into the kiss, his erection into Malfoy’s fist. Harry couldn’t escape, not into his own body and not into his own head, the way he had the other times when stroking Malfoy.

Finally, _finally_ , there was wetness dripping through his fingers, hotter than the simple touch of the Veela’s skin. Harry tried to twist and pull himself free, using both his hands on Malfoy’s to get him to stop yanking on Harry’s bits.

“No,” said Malfoy, with an honest-to-God golden _aura_ surrounding his head, and then he did—something. Harry knew it was magic, but it didn’t feel like any magic he’d ever experienced before. Suddenly the gray eyes captured his face, and he was the center of the world, knowing himself revered and loved and adored by one person, and he knew his defenses were down and he didn’t _care_ , it wasn’t like any mind control he’d ever felt, and the proper thing to do was arch his back and go with the tugging, coaxing, jerking, pulling movements he felt above him.

“That’s it, Potter, Harry,” a voice crooned into his ear, tipping back and forth between bird-like music and masculine huskiness, which would have been disturbing if he could have thought about it, but he couldn’t. The mere idea it might have been disturbing flitted across his mind and vanished. “Fuck, fuck, come _on_ , so good, no idea how beautiful you look, no idea what I’d do for you, want to fuck you senseless, never have to hurt again—“

And for just one moment, Harry believed everything that voice wanted him to believe: that he was someone special, worthy of preservation and being taken delicate care of, and that he was beautiful, and that his cares somehow set him apart from other people.

And in that moment, he came.

Heat flared in his chest like a branding iron, in his cock like pain, but it was pain reversed and turned over, turned opposite to the universe, and it went on and on. Harry felt a jerk like a Portkey, and then like time had stopped completely, and he screamed his completion, hoarsely, before he fell utterly limp and sated into Malfoy’s arms.

He had intended to leave the moment he finished, making his way back to Ginny. He knew that. But he couldn’t have moved if he tried, and he didn’t want to try.

He pressed closer to the warmth against his side. Malfoy’s mouth moved over his face, pressing kisses that lingered for long moments, so sometimes it seemed as if five or six Veela were kissing him at once.

“Go to sleep,” Malfoy said, in the same moment as enormous white wings swept forwards and sealed them into a light, airy, feathery cocoon.

Harry obeyed. It was the simplest and the sweetest thing he’d ever done in his life.

*

Draco had been awake for some hours, watching Potter, when he saw the first tremble of motion in the eyelids that suggested Potter was rising towards wakefulness. Draco traced a hand on the coverlet between them and wondered what he was going to say.

He had awakened when Pansy knocked insistently on the door, to find both himself and Potter shaded by what looked like giant silvery palm fronds at first. He then realized they were wings, _his_ wings, as they sealed down around Potter to shield him from Pansy’s sight—Draco had known already that the Veela didn’t want anyone else seeing its mate naked—and he turned to face the door. He couldn’t go far, given that he couldn’t leave Potter, and so he had faced his wife across an expanse of carpet with the smell of sex hanging in the air.

Pansy raised an eyebrow and tightened her lips a bit, but otherwise showed no reaction. “The Weasley girl is calling through the fire for her husband,” she said. “What should I tell her?”

“Tell her he isn’t coming home yet,” Draco said shortly. He had to use that tone, or the Veela would have taken over his voice with shrieks of outrage. At least this way, it was satisfied he was doing all he could to defend its mate. “He won’t be until he wakes up of his own free will.”

“What did you _do_ to him, Draco?” Pansy’s voice did go up a bit, then.

“Wanked him,” Draco said. “That’s all.” He shivered at the memory of Potter’s reaction, though, and wondered whether he would ever consider wanking something simple and uncomplicated again.

“I thought the bargain was that he wanked _you_ ,” Pansy said, and _now_ her voice had deepened to a hiss.

Draco shrieked at her. It was a more intimidating sound than he had thought it would be—not the warble of a songbird trying to be threatening, but the call of a great raptor. His wings sealed more tightly around Potter than ever, and he curled close, feeling his face waver and alter as if he would grow a beak. His mind bubbled and swam with strangely-colored thoughts like flaws in glass. If she tried to take a step closer, he would rear and spread his wings, and the magic that would come out from underneath them would hurt Pansy.

Strangely enough, Potter didn’t wake, just uttered a sound like a cat purring and closed one hand around the edge of his right wing.

“I do think,” Pansy said when she spoke again, her voice soft, “that your animal side has been indulged quite enough, Draco. After this, it would be best to restrict yourself to seeing Potter once a month, don’t you agree?” Her face had smoothed out into blankness, calmness, but her eyes sparked in the way Draco knew they only did when she was extremely angry. Right now, he didn’t care, but in the back of his mind, he knew he would later. “No more _mutual_ wanking, and no more overnight visits. He may be your mate, but I’m your wife.”

Picturing the stone room with all his might, clawing control back from the Veela for one moment, Draco managed to nod. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m sorry. I just don’t think there’s any point in regretting the past.”

Pansy studied him a moment longer, then sniffed. “Well,” she said. “You’re right about that. I’ll stall the Weasley girl until he wakes, Draco, but you can’t have longer than that.” And she walked out and shut the door behind her.

Draco turned back and buried his nose in Potter’s hair, sniffing. The Veela wanted his scent, and Draco thought that, if he wrapped himself in all the sensory input he could take now, perhaps it wouldn’t urge him back to Potter quite so quickly next time. Or maybe it would even satisfy itself with Potter’s grudging, hesitant wanking, instead of that—that brilliance last night.

From the Veela’s excited chattering and bouncing up and down in the back of his mind, Draco didn’t think it would. But he could try.

His wings faded, dissolving and drifting apart like mist in the morning, about an hour after Pansy’s visit. Draco was relieved. As beautiful as they’d been, he had no idea how he would have explained their presence to Branwen. The Veela subsided down into his mind like mud settling at about the same moment.

And that left him alone to stare at Potter.

Draco’s memories of the last few days were scattered at best. He’d hurt more than he ever had before; it had felt as if a fire had burned in the hollow of his chest, turning his inner organs and his bones to ash. The Veela had turned its magic, its burning desire, on itself, at the thought that it might not see its mate again _and_ at the thought that Potter was spending all his time with his wounded wife.

Draco had tried to be noble, had tried to respect Potter’s grief and give him the distance he needed so he could tend to his wife.

_And look what happened._

At least now he knew he should have gone with his instinct, and simply sought Potter out in the Hogwarts hospital wing when he first started to feel the need, about twelve days ago now. Fuck nobility. It was for people who hadn’t been Slytherins. If he tried to hold off, he only made it worse, for both of them.

Or maybe that should be all five of them, counting Weasley, Pansy, and the Veela.

Draco couldn’t lie to himself, at least not as long as Potter just lay there and snored as if this were the first sleep he’d had in weeks. He didn’t remember much of what they’d done last night, but he remembered enough. And it wasn’t only the Veela who wanted that to happen again.

How could he _resist_ wanting it? That had been the best he’d ever felt, and that it came on the heels of the worst pain he’d ever experienced only increased his hunger for more of the same.

He studied Potter as he lay there naked, and didn’t find him revolting, in the way he always imagined he would. Potter was certainly muscled enough from his work as an Auror, if not as flexible and graceful as constant Quidditch had made Draco. He’d grown into a certain bulkiness that could have made him too broad through the shoulders otherwise, and even his scar seemed to dominate his face less than it had half a decade ago. No, he wasn’t ugly.

And with his face twisted in pleasure, calling out as he came—

Draco felt a tug low in his belly, and knew it was all his own arousal, without a trace of the Veela’s enchanted need.

He held up the truth in front of his eyes, and kept it there until he accepted and acknowledged it. Yes, if he wanted what had happened last night, then he had to accept that some of that was wanting _Potter_ , too.

He couldn’t gain a thing by lying to himself, and he would insist that Potter not lie, either.

What they didn’t need to do was _act_ on it, as Potter would say. Just because they felt the desires was no reason to give in.

Draco licked his lips. He suspected it would be triply difficult to maintain the cool façade of before—at least until Potter said the next stupid thing. He sometimes acted on his libido before realizing it. Pansy had had to pull him back from flirting with those of her friends he found attractive more than once.

But—

At the same time, he found it hard to imagine flirting with Potter. Thanks to the Veela, they’d jumped over the usual steps in getting to know one another and landed straight at an unnatural intimacy Draco couldn’t, and wouldn’t, ignore.

Potter’s story of his friends’ deaths had been the first link in a chain. This, the most intense sexual experience of their lives, was the second.

Draco had no idea where the chain was leading. Maybe it would lead nowhere, and they would end the year with nothing but memories between them, memories they could ignore as long as they didn’t step into the same social circles.

He suspected that wouldn’t happen, but he didn’t really _know_.

*

Harry opened his eyes. For long moments he knew nothing but warmth, and he hummed under his breath and stretched his arms over his head. He felt _rested_ , as he hadn’t done since hearing about Ginny’s accident.

Ginny.

Malfoy.

Oh, _God_.

Harry ducked his head, feeling a blush swift as sunrise sweep his cheeks, and Malfoy’s deep chuckle sounded from above him.

“Surprisingly modest at a surprisingly late stage, Potter,” Malfoy murmured, and his fingers dropped to rest on Harry’s cheek.

Harry thought what happened next startled both of them. He moaned helplessly as the warmth increased and stretched around him, cradling him like the waves of a hot bath. It wasn’t precisely sexual; it just made him feel _good_ to be where he was, to be with whom he was with. He wondered hazily if, since the Veela had touched him practically everywhere last night, there was no way for Malfoy’s hand to connect with an untouched patch of skin and give him those sexual feelings any more.

Malfoy gasped at the same time, and Harry forced his eyes open to see him staring at his hand as if it had detached itself from his body. His features were soft, slack with surprise—human. And then he closed his eyes and rolled his shoulders as if he were spreading those wings Harry barely recalled, and his mouth uttered its own moan.

Hearing that, Harry managed to roll away from the touch, though that nearly caused him to fall off the bed. Malfoy’s hand slipped to the blankets, and Harry could suddenly _think_ again. He gulped breaths of cold air, and refused to look at his bedmate.

“Potter,” Malfoy said at last.

Harry grunted.

“Have you ever felt anything like what you felt last night?”

“No,” Harry said crossly. He wished he could lie, but then Malfoy would only _accuse_ him of lying, and that would start another argument. “And no, I don’t want to feel it again,” he added, anticipating Malfoy’s next question.

“Liar.”

“My _body_ wants it,” Harry corrected himself, as he rose to his feet and began to search for his clothes. His wand had banished them to a corner, where he found them tangled with Malfoy’s robes. He shivered in distaste, and used several cleaning charms before he put them on. “My mind doesn’t. And when in doubt, Malfoy, I listen to my mind and not my body.”

“I won’t let you hide from this.”

Harry stiffened. The noise of his own incantations must have covered the sound of Malfoy’s rising from the bed and coming to stand a few inches behind him. He turned around again, and forced his eyes to look only at Malfoy’s face, not his body. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Malfoy’s hand reaching out to cup his cheek, and he held his wand towards it.

“Back off,” he snarled.

“No,” Malfoy said, with unexpected strength. Harry blinked. Why had he thought the git would back down from a challenge? He never had in the past. “What happened, happened. Part of you is _mine_ , Harry.”

Harry had to close his eyes at the sound of his name. “Malfoy,” he whispered. “Please. Think about what you’re doing. It’s the Veela who wants this, not you.” He heard Malfoy attempt to interrupt, but he kept his words low and rapid and clear like cold water, and he had to listen instead. “I understand that you can’t help it, and yes, what happened, happened. But you’re pushing as if you want it to happen again, and it _can’t_. If you think about it, you’ll see that. You have a successful career, a lovely wife who helps you all the time and was strong enough to agree to this, and a life _without me_. I have a career, too, and a wife I love, and need to spend time with. After this year, the Veela will be gone. Do you really want to ruin our lives for it? Think. It’s only you falling under the dominion of the Veela again.”

Malfoy was silent. Harry knew he hadn’t moved, but he also didn’t try to touch him again. He just seemed to stand there, thinking.

“What do you suggest, then?” he asked, and his voice was a cool drawl one inch from a sneer again. Harry could have fainted in relief.

“That we only have contact the once a month it’s needed,” Harry said, opening his eyes again. “That you don’t let your Veela get that desperate again. That we meet only in locations where I’m able to Apparate away immediately, if it comes to that. That you continue the mind-controlling exercises I showed you, to subdue the Veela.”

“Fine,” Malfoy said. “But I have two conditions of my own.”

Harry nodded warily.

“If I _need_ you, I can come more than once a month,” said Malfoy. “And that you don’t deny what happened here when we’re together.”

Harry relaxed. “I can do that.” He might see Malfoy, what, two or three hours out of the month? He could do that.

“Good,” said Malfoy. His gaze still held Harry’s even as he stepped out of the way and let Harry have access to the bedroom door. His face was full of that disturbing intimacy, the one he had said Harry couldn’t deny.

Harry finally looked away, face burning. He hadn’t let even Ginny see him that uninhibited, any more than he’d told her about Ron and Hermione’s deaths. It felt wrong and dirty that Malfoy had managed to wring that reaction out of him when Ginny hadn’t. Opening himself up had never been easy for Harry, and now Malfoy had leaped over all the walls with an unfair advantage.

“Good-bye, Malfoy,” he said firmly.

“Good-bye, Harry,” Malfoy said, and didn’t seem to notice the glare Harry automatically whipped over his shoulder, instead calling casually for a house-elf.

Harry gave a great sigh, and went to smooth over the matter with Ginny.


	6. April (Part One)

“I don’t like it.”

Harry set the _Daily Prophet_ aside and leaned forwards anxiously. He had told Ginny everything about that evening with Malfoy—the entire truth. She had been quiet for a time in return, then told him she needed a few days to think about it.

She’d taken five. It was April third now, a month since her accident, and Harry had planned a dinner at one of the better restaurants in Diagon Alley to celebrate her recovery. But it had been hard to tell her about that when she wasn’t speaking to him outside polite necessities.

Ginny settled herself in her chair and looked back firmly. There had been marks of tears around her eyes, but they had faded, leaving her face washed clean, like a cliff struck by rain. She was under a blanket that covered the worst of her injuries, and her crutches were off to the side, enough so Harry had to turn his head to see them. Despite his anxiety, he nearly smiled. She looked like a queen about to deliver a judgment, the way she had when he came back after the war and asked to take up where they’d left off.

_That worked out all right. Maybe this will, too._

“You broke your promise to me, Harry,” she said, and his hope faded a bit. “You said you’d do what he needed, but that was—more than what you had to do.” She lowered her eyes and contemplated her hands, folded on the blanket, for a moment. Then she lifted them again and looked at him sternly. “I can bear many things. I’ve _had_ to bear many things, these past few months.”

Harry nodded.

“But—not my husband cheating with someone who has _no_ claim on him except the claim created by a magical accident.” Ginny shook her head slightly. “From now on, you can touch him as he needs you to. And he can use light kisses and brushes of his hand, if he absolutely _has_ to. But I don’t want him touching you so that he makes you come.”

Harry relaxed. It was a simple penance, one that he could pay without feeling he was compromising his duty to Malfoy, and it allowed him to avoid the most awkward and personally hurtful aspect of his last encounter with Malfoy. “I promise, Ginny.”

“You broke your promise once,” she said, and looked at him. “I don’t know if I can trust you now.”

“If you’d like,” Harry offered, “I’ll buy a Pensieve, and put the memories of all the times I spend with him in it when I’m done. Then you can look at them and make sure I’m telling the truth.”

For the first time in the last five days, a smile broke over her face. “Thank you,” she said. “There are some things I won’t want to see, of course, but others—“ She put out her hands, and Harry, recognizing it for the invitation it was, came over and clasped hers with his. “I know, in some ways, that it can’t be helped,” she added. “It isn’t his fault. But, Harry, I’m not willing to let this regrettable thing that’s taken over _his_ life take over _ours_. I don’t want you making larger sacrifices for him than you would for me.”

“Which is perfectly acceptable,” said Harry, and kissed the top of her head. “Now. I have a reservation for us at the Dragon’s Claw. Do you feel well enough to go?”

Ginny needed only a moment to figure out the date. And then her smile warmed and widened, and Harry knew he really was forgiven. “That would be lovely,” she said, and Summoned her crutches to her with a wave of her wand. She’d got much better with them in the last little while, and even when she’d been angry with Harry, she’d trusted him to help her walk.

Harry felt the last tension leave his muscles as he watched her lever herself carefully across the floor. Yes, it had happened, but it could be jumped over and dispensed with. Malfoy had said Harry couldn’t ignore it. Maybe that was true, but he didn’t have to spend time brooding on it, either.

“Come help me with my coat, Harry?”

Harry hurried to do it, wondering what he’d done to deserve such a forgiving, loving wife.

*

“Writing to Potter?”

Draco didn’t look up. “Yes, actually,” he said. “Would you like to read the letter before the owl goes?”

He felt Pansy stiffen behind him, but he didn’t look around. He concentrated on picking just the right words that would convince Harry to accept the invitation. He wanted the git to accept said invitation. It was time that they spent time together without feeling immediate pressure from the Veela.  
Harry had put on his heroic mask every time they’d been together before this. Draco wanted to see what he looked like when he was behaving normally.

He recognized more than a hint of the Veela’s desire in his own thoughts. He didn’t care. There was the chance—and it was a _chance_ , no more, since so far they’d demonstrated nothing other than sexual compatibility—that Harry could be better for him than Pansy. Draco certainly wouldn’t have considered it without his accident, and it was highly likely not to be true, especially with the nasty reluctance Harry had displayed to even look someone he’d had sex with in the eye. There was also the complication of two marriages.

But Draco had never been satisfied to have less than the best, and so, if it was true, he intended to check.

“I would like to,” said Pansy, at his shoulder, then.

“All right,” Draco said, and leaned away from the parchment, so she could read the neatly inked words. It said nothing more than the fact that the Falcons’ home pitch was free next Sunday—they had no games in April, and so Branwen had lowered their amount of practices for the next few weeks—and would Harry like to meet him there and play a Seeker’s Game?

“I didn’t know you were calling him by his first name now,” Pansy said quietly, tracing the salutation.

“I am,” Draco said.

She turned and stared hard at him. Draco stared back, calm as calm. He had no plans to cheat on Pansy—more than the Veela already forced him to do, at any rate. He wasn’t tired of her. He didn’t love her, but then, he didn’t love Harry, either. He knew she was a good wife for him, a woman he wouldn’t have been able to live life without during the first few years after the war.

But he would also be a fool to pass something like this up, if the Veela really _had_ made the right choice.

“You said that you’d avoid seeking him out unless you needed him,” Pansy said lowly.

Draco laughed. “I’ll be so busy that next week that it would inconvenience me to see him,” he pointed out, “and I _won’t_ wait until the end of the month, considering what happened last time. He might as well meet me that Sunday and do what’s necessary then.”

Pansy stared into his eyes some more. Draco smiled back, complacent and assured. He meant what he said. Besides, while Pansy had always been good at catching people when they lied, Draco was an awfully accomplished liar.

“I wish I knew what you wanted,” Pansy murmured, so softly that Draco almost couldn’t hear her.

“For the accident never to have happened,” Draco said honestly. His life _would_ have been much easier if he hadn’t started suspecting that there was someone out there who would make him happier than his wife, and if that person hadn’t happened to be male, married, a hero, and famous to boot. “But there’s no point in regretting the past. At the moment, I’m interested in making sure I have a choice, that I don’t act like an animal and burn again.”

And all that was true, too. That not acting under the control of the Veela would also enable Harry to see him at his best was not a motivation Pansy needed to know about.

She sniffed, then, drawing his attention back to her. “As long as it’s just to meet up with him for that reason,” she said. “Not because you like spending time with him.”

Draco laughed, genuinely amused. “There’s never been a time when I felt anything but irritation or lust at him, Pansy. Sometimes hatred, back in Hogwarts. No, I don’t like spending time with him.”

_But I want to see if I could._

She relaxed, then, and patted his hair. “Remember that we have the Martins’ party that evening,” she said. “You’ll have to be back at a civilized hour.”

“I remember,” Draco said, and then sealed the letter into an envelope and summoned a house-elf to post it.

*

“I suspected he would do this,” Ginny said, displaying Malfoy’s letter, “after what you told me about his reaction last time.”

Harry eyed the letter warily. It had come to the house while he was at the Ministry, and Ginny had read it first. While he was glad of that—so she could make up her own mind about what it said and not suspect him of hiding it from her—whatever was in it seemed to have upset her more.

He took it, read the invitation, and handed it back, baffled. “What made you suspect he would do this?” he asked. “He’s probably trying to fulfill that condition I put on him last time, about our meeting in a place I can Apparate out of if he tries to touch me.”

“You trust too easily, Harry.” Ginny rapped her fingers against the letter and shook her head while she clucked her tongue, a noise Harry had to admit he found irritating. “And it was what you told me about him calling you by your first name. He seems to have decided that he wants you.” She lifted her chin, in the motion that meant she was in a stubborn mood. “Well, he can’t have you.”

“Of course he can’t have me,” said Harry, sitting down in the chair beside her and putting an arm around her shoulders. “And it’s the Veela that wants me, not Malfoy.”

“Then why does he write to you using your first name?” Ginny tapped the letter again. “Unless the Veela controls what he writes, too.”

Harry had to admit that was strange. And the invitation to a Quidditch game…since when did Malfoy want to spend time with him for its own sake? He shook his head. “There might be a simpler explanation, but I can’t think of it,” he muttered.

Ginny smiled at him with a triumphant air. “Well, just write back and tell him you can only see him for a few minutes, long enough to give him what he—needs—and no longer.”

Harry paused for a long moment, wondering if that would come across as too unfriendly. Then he rolled his eyes at himself. Since when did he worry about coming across as too unfriendly to _Malfoy_? Probably this was just a joke, and if it wasn’t, Malfoy should be grateful when Harry pointed out the way he was slipping, letting the Veela control more of his actions than he should.

“I will, love,” he said, and stood up to write the letter.

*

Draco was well-aware that he’d been too quiet for the boisterous dinner party Pansy had brought him to—an election for Minister would begin in a few months, there was a good chance that Scrimgeour would lose this time, and everyone was buzzing about it—but his mind was on Harry’s letter. It had been polite and utterly impassive, offering Draco a few minutes on that Sunday afternoon and no more.

_Idiot. I asked him not to ignore this, and what is he trying to do? Exactly that._

Pansy wandered over to him and looped her arm through his, smiling. She had been in a better mood ever since she’d seen Harry’s refusal. “So who do you think has the best chance in the next election, Draco?”

Luckily, he’d already dreamed up his answer and had it poised on the tip of his tongue. “Scrimgeour still has the best chance. Jones is flashy, but he doesn’t have the record to back him up.” He rolled his eyes. He couldn’t _believe_ the other candidate in the race, his gall or his belief that he actually stood a chance. “And Nott? Most people still think ‘Death Eater’ when they hear that name, at least as much as they do when they hear mine.”

“Hm, true.” Pansy nodded. “I was just telling Millie that I think Jones has a chance after all, but you can be strong in magic and still not be right for politics.” She sipped her wine to, Draco thought, cover her grimace. “Since, in this brave new world, actions mean more than names or blood.”

“Millicent is here?” Draco asked, grateful to get away from the subject of politics. “Where?” He hadn’t seen her for months, since her work seemed to have a penchant for taking her underground. She either worked for the Department of Mysteries or for a reclusive Dark wizard whom some people suspected of being a necromancer. Her vague answers to his questions could have meant either, and she never denied anything.

“Over there, talking to Theodore,” Pansy said, nodding across the room.

Draco picked up a second glass of wine from the nearest house-elf and went to see Millicent, while Pansy turned to address some second-rate wizard whom Draco thought worked for the _Daily Prophet_. He could hear her speaking as he retreated, explaining how the Malfoys had not _really_ been as Dark as they were portrayed, and most of Draco’s actions during the war had been the fault of youthful enthusiasm.

_She always protects me. Some people might say she was more than I deserve._

_But Malfoy is her name now, too, so in essence she’s protecting herself. I don’t know if I find that flattering._

Into Draco’s mind came the thought that Harry would never protect him if he didn’t find him deserving. Then he shook his head. The very fact that Harry had agreed to help him with this Veela nonsense proved that he would succor any innocent in distress.

The word “succor” brought the word “suck” to mind, and Draco tried his best to banish all the unfortunate associations, along with his lasting anger at Harry for backing out on the Quidditch game, as he reached Millicent and Theodore and bowed to them both, handing his extra glass of wine to Millicent.

“I’m sorry I didn’t bring one for you, Theo,” he said, lacing his voice with false regret. “But ladies claim the greater share of my attention.” He smiled at Millicent, who received his flattery with the distant smile that was her most common expression since the war, and sipped her drink.

Theodore grinned at him, and reached out to push gently at his shoulder. He wore the green robes of one of the Ministry’s Potions experts, even here; he was proud of his new rank, and showed it off partially to brag and partially to remind people of what he was, now, no matter who his father had been and who his stupid uncle, running for Minister, still was. “Charming as always, Draco.” He glanced around, then leaned near and lowered his voice. “I hope that your little accident a few months ago is resolved?”

“Resolving itself,” Draco said, wincing and trying not to remember the acid-like burn when the potions had splashed on himself. “No lasting side-effects, at least. Everything should be resolved by the end of this year.”

_Unless I still want to fuck Harry into the ground then._

And the worst thing about it, he thought with a long swallow of the wine, was that he had to admit he and the Veela wanted the same things. There was no longer the comfort of knowing they were two separate and distinct creatures. Its thoughts blended with his, its wants were his, and its mate was his—well, not a friend, not a lover, but still his, in an odd way. Part of him.

“What accident?” Millicent asked.

“Potions accident at the Ministry,” Draco said, as lightly as he could. He would say that he trusted Millicent, but since he couldn’t tell where she would bear the information to, the trust was lessened. “Combined with several spells, and I had a nasty attack of some of my ancestors’ sins.” He grinned and coaxed a light flush to his cheeks, as if embarrassed. “Mostly sexual side-effects. But they’re wearing off, slowly.” He slanted a glance at his wife. “Pansy wasn’t best pleased, of course.”

Millicent nodded and seemed to lose interest in the matter, though one never could tell.

“Who do you like for Minister?” Draco asked her.

Millicent stared dreamily into her glass for a long moment. Then she looked up. “I doesn’t matter who I _like_ ,” she said, a momentary sharpness touching her voice. “It’ll be Scrimgeour. It must be.”

Draco and Theodore exchanged glances. When Millicent said something in that flat, certain tone, it inevitably happened. Draco, though, couldn’t decide if that meant anything magical. It might only mean that Millicent had access to certain tidbits of political information before anyone else did.

_Wherever she works._

“Whatever you say, Millie,” said Theodore, and patted her on the shoulder. Then he glanced at Draco. “And what’s got you out of sorts? Your mouth’s twisted up to the side the way it was whenever you found out Gryffindor won a Quidditch game.”

 _Fucking Potter_. Draco let out his breath. “A bit of trouble with the team,” he lied, easily enough; Branwen never let any of the “trouble” she had with her players reach the public, so they had no way of checking on his story. “I’m afraid I can’t talk about it.”

Theodore patted him on the shoulder in turn. “We understand.”

 _Well, you do, at least_ , Draco thought, and looked at Millicent, who was staring into her wineglass as if it held all the secrets of existence. Perhaps her job had something to do with Divination. She certainly acted as cracked as ever old Professor Trelawney had.

Theodore moved the conversation elsewhere then, and Draco happily went with it, discussing rival Quidditch teams, the Ministry’s latest tiresome attempts to discourage prejudice against Mudbloods, the scandal surrounding the escape of a Hebridean Black dragon from its sanctuary, Ginny Potter’s accident, and other subjects that did not touch in any way on Draco’s accident.

Or Harry, damn him.

Draco noticed his hands were shaking with an almost academic interest. Then he put down the wine, and decided he wouldn’t drink any for the rest of the evening.

It wasn’t, quite, the Veela need. It was something he didn’t want to feel any more than he wanted to feel that, however.

It was the urge to talk about Harry combined with the urge not to talk about him. It was the desire to Floo home and send an owl to Harry cursing him for his refusal to meet Draco for the Seeker’s game, and then immediately afterwards send one apologizing and asking again for his company. It was—

 _Letting the Veela take over my thoughts_ , Draco diagnosed himself firmly, and then went, found Pansy, and _made_ himself enjoy the evening. Parties like this had been the second most important part of his life until a few months ago, and even when he couldn’t be the star of the evening, he could always make sly and cutting remarks about other guests and earn attention that way.

It was an effort.

How much of an effort it was scared him.

*

“Ready?” Ralph’s voice was in his ear, so low that Harry had to concentrate to hear him.

Harry nodded, once, and Ralph’s hand briefly brushed his. “Luck,” he mouthed.

Harry tried to say it back, but wasn’t sure he managed before Kingsley’s voice rang out in a savage bark from the other side of the house. “Now!”

Harry raised his wand and put all his power behind the Blasting Curse he used to break the building’s door open. He had to destroy not only the wood and stone but the wards protecting it, and then the magic nearly burned him half to death in the backlash. He was on the ground before then, though, holding Ralph flat with him, and the fire went over their heads. Then he was on his feet and pounding inside, with Ralph right behind him.

It was dark inside the house—strange, since there had been both magical light shining through the shutters and sunlight from the outside a few moments before. Harry focused, and felt the oily tinge of powerful glamour magic against his senses.

“Glamour!” he called, so the other Hermes Aurors would know and not waste time trying to cast a light charm. Glamours could only be countered by _Finite Incantatem_. Harry moved his wand through the appropriate motions and thought the spell as hard as he could, and the glamour fled like a startled hare.

He had a brief glimpse of a room filled with wooden tables, each one with a cauldron bubbling on it, before someone crashed into him and bore him to the ground, snarling wildly.

_Snarling?_

“Werewolf!” Harry yelled, and then he was twisting and rolling and kicking, doing everything he could to keep the bulky man on top of him from gaining a firm hold on his sides or throat. It was near the full moon—not the day of, or Harry would have to worry about infection—but werewolves’ strength increased as it came closer, and if he could get a moment’s purchase, this bloke could easily strangle Harry to death.

The snarls continued, so fierce that Harry wouldn’t have thought they were human if he were only listening to them. But then heavy punches slammed into his side, and he gasped and had to stop moving. The hands that gave the punches promptly reached for his throat, scrabbling to his shoulders and squeezing.

Harry gritted his teeth through the pain and flicked his wand. The Blasting Curse hit the werewolf in turn and flung him away. He crashed into one of the tables and howled as the cauldrons boiling above him overturned and dumped their blue potions all over him. A moment later, the howl became a cry of true agony, and not just frustration at losing his prey.

Harry spun on one heel and flung a Body-Bind over his shoulder, only consciously realizing a moment later that there’d been an opponent there. The witch had dodged, but the motion had disrupted her own attack, whatever it was, and now they circled each other.

She was—familiar. It took more than a glimpse of the thick head of blonde hair, but Harry finally placed her.

“Carrow,” he said, and his voice was a snarl to rival the werewolf’s.

Alecto Carrow bared her teeth at him, but didn’t waste breath on words. Her wand moved in a dazzling motion that would have taken Harry if he hadn’t seen it before; a number of the former Death Eaters used the exact same motion, since they’d learned under the same dueling master. It was meant to make the curses they cast harder to identify.

But Harry had been in the forefront of the hunt for the Death Eaters who had escaped Voldemort’s fall, and he knew the whole range of motions they could cast, limited as they were, by now.

He knew she was casting the Cruciatus, and his instinctive rage made his Shield Charm the most powerful he’d ever cast; the walls shook with the force of it. Her own curse came very near rebounding on her, and she barely dodged it. When she came in a second time, it was more cautiously.

Harry sensed movement around him, and quickly counted footsteps. Two sets. That made sense. Alecto Carrow never went far without Amycus, her brother, and Amycus had no skill in glamours, which meant there had to be at least one more wizard who’d cast that. Add the werewolf—

_Fenrir Greyback—_

And there were at least four Death Eaters in here, plus whatever company they’d brought. Now that they knew Harry was here, they’d be concentrating on him. They had never forgiven him for the fall of their Lord.

Harry was breathing hard, but he knew he was doing it through a rictus grin. A savagery he never felt except at moments like this was up and barking in him.

_Let them do it. If they’re hunting me, they won’t be looking at Kingsley or Ralph or Hestia—_

And then another glamour wrapped the room, this time a replica of the battle where Harry had killed Voldemort, with the towers of Hogwarts in the background. Curses flashed, victims screamed and died, and Harry could feel the glamour-maker searching for entrance to his brain, trying to pick out what he’d feared most in this battle and add it to the scene.

Unfortunately for him, in doing that, he’d given himself away. There was only one Death Eater who had such skill in illusions—so skilled that he’d completely masked the Dark Mark on his arm and never gone to Azkaban after Voldemort’s first fall—and was still running free.

“ _Accio_ Richard Yaxley’s wand!” Harry called, and then something invisible in the green mist of Killing Curses his eyes saw zipped through the air and into his hand. Harry caught it with the skill of a Seeker and then dived, a slight sound that didn’t belong to the battle warning him.

A curse flew some distance above him, and then Harry banged his head on an invisible table leg and had to deal with that pain. The glamour was gone in the next moment, though, its master unable to maintain his concentration without his wand in hand.

Someone snarled horribly, and then yelped. _Fenrir again_ , Harry thought, _and by the smell of burning hair, I think Hestia got him_.

He raised a leg and broke Yaxley’s wand over his knee, then tucked the broken pieces into his robe pockets and scrambled out from under the table on the other side. He whirled around to see Alecto and her lumpy brother Amycus running full-tilt at him, chanting long, complicated incantations. Behind them, a pale-faced, dark-haired man was sinking slowly to his knees, affected as wizards always were by the sudden loss of a bonded wand.

One of the cauldrons Amycus had just passed abruptly Levitated into the air and dumped itself all over him. He screamed and clawed at his skin, then began casting spells to get it off him. Harry caught a brief glimpse of Ralph’s victorious face, and then he and Alecto were in a duel and he couldn’t look any more.

She tried to sling one of the cauldrons over on him in turn, but he had a shield up, and then he tried to light her robes on fire and she blocked that, and then he stripped part of the flesh from her bones on her left hand and she shrieked but threw something at him instead of trying to defend herself, and Harry fell to one leg as a spray of acid struck his right hip.

He cast the _Aguamenti_ charm on himself, washing off and diluting the acid before it could do much damage, and then looked up to see every cauldron in the place spinning above his head on thin threads of light, ready to dump their contents on him.

“This is for our Lord, Potter,” Alecto breathed. “Since you killed him, none of us have—“

The fault of the Death Eaters, Harry thought, had always been that they _talked_ too much. That gave him time, and he had worked the first defensive Transfiguration that he could think of. The cauldrons all shivered, and turned into large birds. Harry hadn’t had much time to concentrate, so they still had round bellies and metallic wings rather like handles, but they soared away from above him, and Alecto gaped after them for a long, witless moment.

Harry used the moment to disarm her, sweep her feet from underneath her with a more enthusiastic version of the _Aguamenti_ charm, Body-Bind her, and then knock her unconscious for good measure. Limping a bit, he turned and looked after the others.

Yaxley had fallen unconscious, too. Kingsley crouched over him. Ralph, looking a bit embarrassed, stood by the badly-melted remains of Amycus; no one save Alecto would mourn him, but it was considered bad form for Aurors to kill on the job. Hestia Jones, justifiably proud in Harry’s view, sat beside Fenrir Greyback, who now wore silver shackles and a fixed snarl.

“Excellent work,” said Kingsley briskly. “Three taken, one killed, and we have a good chance of finding out who was employing them to brew this potion, whatever it is.” He had a gruff tone, and someone would have to know his superior very well, Harry thought, to realize just how pleased he was; it was there in the shine to his eyes and the depth of his voice. The tall Black Auror made a careful scan of Hestia, then of Ralph, nodding a little as if to show his surprise that both had escaped from a confrontation with four dangerous Death Eaters harboring only slight injuries. Then he looked at Harry and shook his head. “How is it that you always end up with the most wounds, Potter?”

“It’s a rare and unrecognized talent, and the true secret of how I killed Voldemort,” Harry deadpanned, and then started checking himself over. The heavy punches from Fenrir, the bump on his head from the table leg, a puffy and swollen knee he might have sustained at any point during the battle, and the splash of acid on his hip from Alecto’s wand. Nothing that couldn’t wait, though. “None of Greyback’s claws broke the skin,” he added, knowing the confirmation Kingsley was truly waiting for.

His boss relaxed. “Good. Back to the Ministry with this lot, then, and secure holding cells for them.”

They Levitated their prisoners—all except Ralph, whom Kingsley charged with remaining behind to gather up Amycus’s body and examine the potion. None of them recognized it, but they had reason to suspect, after the job they’d done of following the tracks, that the potion had been used in several murders in and around Diagon Alley lately. Ralph would have to decide how to Transfigure Harry’s cauldron-birds back into their original form, a task that Harry didn’t envy him. They were currently cooing and pecking on the house’s windows.

Harry limped as they headed back to the Ministry, the adrenaline worn off. Still, he was satisfied. These four had been the most dangerous Death Eaters remaining free. They hadn’t found the potion-maker yet, but they had done a good day’s work.


	7. April (Part Two)

Getting Alecto registered as a dangerous criminal took almost no time at all; Harry really only had to pull back her sleeve and show the Dark Mark. And then she went into a holding cell, wrapped with so many wards that it would have taken a wizard of Harry’s own level even to _think_ about magic in it. And Harry, just to make sure, supervised the transfer of Fenrir Greyback into an even more secure cell, while the werewolf snarled silently at him, and stank of burned fur, the entire time.

All in all, he was in a pretty damn good mood when he limped into his office to start filing the paperwork for the case.

“Good Lord, Harry, what _happened_?”

Harry stopped, staring. Malfoy was leaning against the far wall of the office, behind Ralph’s desk, but swiftly straightening, with a shocked look on his face. “How did _you_ get in here?” he demanded.

“My famous charm.” Malfoy covered the ground between them in three strides, and then caught Harry to hold him up, even though he didn’t need any help. He smoothly ducked the elbow Harry tried to put in his side. “You just came from battle, didn’t you? You _idiot_. Has anyone seen that leg—“

His hand fell to rest on Harry’s right hip and on top of the acid wound, and the flare of pain that followed made Harry almost black out. “Damn it!” he hissed, when he was sure he was conscious, and lunged away from Malfoy and into his chair. That wrenched his knee again, and his ribs and head joined in with loud choruses of pain. Harry rubbed them, and cursed, and thought sourly that he’d been just _fine_ until Malfoy had to try his stupid heroics.

“Someone’s going to see the leg in a little while,” he said, leaning forward and trying the death glare that worked well on Auror trainees who thought that working with the famous Harry Potter meant they’d have a chance to capture criminals every day of the week. “I have a few things to accomplish first. Now, what the _fuck_ are you doing here?”

Malfoy folded his arms and looked unimpressed. “Rescuing you, it appears,” he said. He looked at his left hand, then held it up for Harry’s inspection. There was blood on it.

Harry rolled his eyes. “So it’s an open wound. It had stopped bleeding until you _pulled_ at it—“

“How did you get it?”

“Acid, from Alecto Carrow’s wand. Now, will you please—“

Malfoy changed before his eyes. Suddenly the shadows of wings were unfolding from his shoulders, but they looked like blades. His face flickered and danced like static on a Muggle telly, now human, now beaked like some great bird. Staring, Harry fell silent.

Malfoy took a few moments more, and then regained control of himself, though his face was white as bone. “So, in other words, you went up against Death Eaters, and nearly died,” he rasped.

“Will you stop putting it like that?” Harry rolled his eyes. _Honestly, Malfoy is such a drama queen_. “Three other Aurors were with me. And I’m not so stupid as to ignore my own injuries for hours, I promise. But they can wait for right now, because none of them were werewolf wounds.”

“None of them were werewolf wounds,” Malfoy repeated, as if that were the stupidest thing he had ever heard.

“Yes, Fenrir Greyback was there,” Harry said dismissively, beginning to search for his paperwork. Maybe Malfoy would calm down when he saw that Harry was calm, and tell him what he wanted, and then leave. “He was the major danger. But one of the other Aurors took him down, really, even though he attacked me. Anything that’s not a werewolf wound can wait until I’ve signed a few things.”

“You’re _such_ an idiot,” Malfoy said, softly and fervently.

“Hmmm,” said Harry, and barely controlled the impulse to use one of Ralph’s obscene gestures. He signed his name once, then looked up. “Now, what did you want? I already agreed that I’d see you for a few minutes on Sunday afternoon.”

*

Draco was shaking from reaction, and he hadn’t even _been_ in the battle. How could Harry just sit there, looking like the battered veteran of half a dozen wars, and look at him so—

So fucking _calmly_?

The Veela hadn’t had concrete proof before that its mate’s life might be in danger. Now it was shrieking in the back of his head, and Draco only kept from doing the same thing by reminding himself that Harry wasn’t in danger of bleeding to death right in front of his eyes.

Draco swallowed back a mixture of anger and sickness, and did his best to imitate Harry’s calm manner. Otherwise, he _would_ let the Veela have control again, and it would grow its wings, grab Harry, Apparate him to a private room in Malfoy Manor, and keep him there until his wounds had been thoroughly tended and the Veela itself had seen to every square inch of skin.

“I invited you to a game of Quidditch on Sunday,” he said, “and you declined. I wanted to know why.”

Harry paused in writing his name again to give him a sidelong glance. “I’d think that would be obvious,” he said. “We’re not _friends_ , Malfoy. You said that you’d come to me when you needed me, and no other time. But what are broken promises to someone like you?” A moment later, he flushed deeply.

“Low blow, Harry,” Draco hissed. He opened his mouth to pursue the matter of Harry’s flush, but Harry hissed back at him, his voice holding more than a hint of Parseltongue.

“Will you stop _calling_ me that? Every time you take down the barriers between us, I have to work harder to put them back up.”

Draco took a moment to study his face, and with the sight of the shine in his green eyes, the Veela’s anger shifted to lust. Draco went with the impulse, leaning forwards and putting an elbow on the desk. “Call me mad, but I do like to use the first names of people I’ve had sex with.”

Harry immediately looked away. “It wasn’t sex,” he said. “Just mutual wanking.” His voice gained strength. “And Ginny doesn’t want me doing it again. I can wank you, kiss you—whatever. But no more coming with you.”

Draco got his first full taste of Veela jealousy then. It wasn’t pleasant. His stomach seemed to have knotted up like rope, and he had a mouthful of poison he couldn’t bear to swallow.

“And if the Veela needs that?” he asked softly.

“I can’t give it.” Harry’s voice was resolute, but miserable. “I’ll meet you—it—twice a month, if necessary. But I _won’t_ break my word to Ginny.”

Draco finally managed to swallow, and then say, “I invited you for a Seeker’s Game because I thought we both deserved the chance to meet on friendly terms, for once. You’re the one who spoiled that.”

Harry turned to look at him again, eyes wide and incredulous. It was too close to the way he’d looked when Draco first gripped his cock for Draco’s own cock not to throb. “How many times do I have to say this?” he asked. “We’re not friends. You don’t need to call me by my first name. You don’t need to worry about my wounds. You don’t need to give me a thing. As soon as I’ve given the Veela what it needs for the last time, I fully expect you to leave me to my own life.”

Draco shook his head. “Not good enough any more.”

“But _why_?” Harry ran a weary hand through his hair, then winced; he must have touched some wound hidden on his scalp. Draco restrained the immediate impulse to cast a numbing charm. “It should be. And I don’t want to break my promise to Ginny.”

“Don’t break your promise to her,” said Draco. “But did she really make you promise never to play Quidditch with me?”

Harry scowled. “No.”

“Well, then.”

“You still didn’t tell me why you want to be my friend.” Harry peered at him around the heel of his palm, still on his face. “I’ve done horrible things to you, Malfoy, God knows.”

“I want it,” Draco said, and waved a hand. “The reason isn’t important.”

“Yes, it is. Malfoy—“

“I suppose we could make a bargain,” Draco said, and tapped his lips with one finger. “You can start calling me by my first name, or you can come to the Quidditch game, and I _might_ consider either of those recompense enough for breaking your promise that you wouldn’t try to ignore what happened between us.”

Harry opened his mouth, then closed it and groaned. “How do I get _into_ these things?” he muttered.

“Choose,” Draco said, not inclined to be lenient now. _The bitch tried to keep him away from me_. That Ginny Potter was probably justified in not wanting her husband to cheat on her didn’t matter. She had agreed to this bargain, and now she wouldn’t accept the natural consequences that came with it.

Harry sighed. “Fine. The Quidditch game.”

Draco smiled at him. “Is my first name that hard to say, then?”

“Get out.”

Harry was beginning to look seriously angry, so Draco thought he should make the most of his chance while he had it. He gave a mock bow and made his way to the office door, which Theodore had been kind enough to find him a key for.

He did pause to look back, and add, “If you don’t have those wounds treated in the next few hours, Harry, I _will_ give you hell.”

He shut the door before the gape-mouthed Auror could retort.

*

“So I suppose what I think doesn’t really matter, then, does it?”

Harry kept his eyes on his hands as he laced up his old Quidditch gloves. He hadn’t bought a new pair in years, but then again, he hadn’t done much growing since he was nineteen, either. He had suspected the old gloves would fit, and, sure enough, they did.

“Do _not_ ignore me, Harry James Potter.”

Harry sighed and brought his head up so that he was meeting Ginny’s eyes. “I told you the bargain,” he said quietly. “Maybe spending more time with Malfoy will ease the Veela’s desire to—please its lover.” He could still feel the heat of the flush on his skin. No matter how many times he said it, he still couldn’t quite get used to the fact that “Veela’s lover” referred to himself. “He said it wouldn’t be enough. I’m hoping that just a few hours in his company will make it be.”

“But I didn’t want you to go at all.” Ginny’s whisper was as loud as a shout to some parts of his brain.

Harry moved forwards and embraced her, feeling her hold him back desperately. “To keep that promise to you about not cheating,” he whispered, “I have to spend some time to him. Just playing Quidditch couldn’t be so bad, could it?”

“I don’t trust him,” Ginny whispered back. “He wants you, and I feel like I’m losing my grip on you. I hate it.”

He could think of nothing to say, and so pressed his lips to her hair. “I want to stay right here,” he said. “I’ll refuse all the little tricks he’s trying to entice me closer, I promise. I won’t call him by his first name, or let him use me the way he did, or spend the night at his house again. I’m in a place where I can Apparate away immediately if he tries anything more than what I’ve told him he can have. It might be worthwhile to be friends with him, because then he’ll feel some more consideration for me, and he might stop _intriguing_ like this.”

Ginny gave a quiet little sniffle, but said nothing for long moments. Then she murmured a sentence he couldn’t hear, since her mouth was pressed against his chest.

“What?” Harry drew back to look down at her.

“I said that he won’t stop intriguing,” Ginny said, pulling back at the same time. She looked up, and she was trying to smile, but her eyes were bitter. “Why would he? He’s a Slytherin. They always plot.”

Harry thought of Malfoy’s eyes when he’d seen Harry’s wounds, and couldn’t convince himself that worry was part of a plan. But he certainly couldn’t say that to Ginny. “I’m only doing this to keep him from dying,” he said. “For no other reason. I certainly don’t desire _him_ , Gin.”

 _Liar_ , said his subconscious.

Harry ignored the traitorous voice in his head. He’d actually spent some time reading about this in February, and the book he’d consulted said that psychological bonds grew between people who had sexual contact, even when they agreed that it should mean nothing. Add Veela magic to that, and it could feel like desire. But it _wasn’t_. It was a trick of his own mind, and Harry wouldn’t let that destroy his relationship with his wife.

“Ah, yes. Ever the paragon.”

Harry’s brow wrinkled as he looked at Ginny. Those words were _definitely_ bitter, and her eyes flashed. “What do you mean?”

“You can’t stand for innocent people to die.” Ginny folded her arms and stared down at her blanket-covered legs. “Even if it means sacrificing marital fidelity.”

“ _Should_ I have let him die?” Harry asked, his voice going a little rough with anger. Ginny couldn’t know the specific cause of it since he’d never shared the memory of Ron and Hermione’s deaths with her, but she’d heard him say often enough that he’d become an Auror to preserve innocent lives. How could she expect him to turn against that rationale by which he lived his life now?

“I know you couldn’t,” Ginny said. “You’re too much of a hero for that.”

Harry blew out his breath in exasperation. “Heroism has nothing to do with it. I just—no one deserves to die like that.”

Ginny closed her eyes. “I know,” she said. “How many times do you think I’ve told myself that in the last three and a half months? But I resent that this happened to me _so much_.”

Harry put his arms back around her, completely contented with her answer. No, it wasn’t fair, any more than it was fair that the prophecy had picked him to destroy Voldemort. But sometimes things like that happened, and the best way to deal with them was just live, and continue, and then laugh about it afterwards.

And then he had an idea—one of those little inspirations in dealing with his wife that had often come to him since he married her.

“Why don’t we have a holiday next month?” he whispered. “Just you and me. A week at least—maybe longer than that. I’m owed time. We’ll go to—to Mexico, maybe,” he said, picking a destination out of Ginny’s very long list of places she’d once told him she would like to visit. “No mention of Draco Malfoy or Auror work or Quidditch allowed. Just you and me.”

Her eyes opened again, soft. “I would like that very much,” she said softly, and then patted her leg. “This won’t inconvenience us too much?”

“The last thing you could ever be,” Harry said fervently, “is an _inconvenience_.” He kissed her on the mouth, then stood a moment longer, smiling at her, before he turned and left.

She said nothing as he closed the door, but the silence between them was peaceful.

*

Draco looked up as he saw a broom dart across the sky. He would have opened his mouth to shout whoever it was off the pitch, but he knew at once that it was Harry.

Funny, really. It had been years since he’d seen him on a broom, but he couldn’t forget that combination of grace and natural skill, as though Harry had been born to fly instead of walk. The Firebolt skimmed in several directions, then seemed to orient on Draco and plunge towards him.

Draco found himself staring, transfixed. Then he licked his lips and stepped forwards, holding out a hand as if he could catch his mate.

 _Its mate_ , he thought a moment later, but it was getting harder and harder to deny what he’d known for some time now: that the Veela’s thoughts were becoming inextricably mixed with his own, that it was ceasing to be a separate personality.

Harry pulled up a moment before he would have hit the ground and grinned, swinging off his broom. “Afternoon, Malfoy,” he said cheerfully. “Ready to have your arse handed to you?”

The openness of Harry’s face surprised Draco, who spent a moment studying him before he replied. He looked perfectly healthy, without a trace of the pain that had marred his expression when they last met. He even held out a hand for Draco to clasp, as if no hard feelings had ever lain between them.

He recognized the tactic a moment later, of course; there weren’t many elements of manipulation that he didn’t. Harry doubtless hoped that a friendship between them would get Draco’s mind off sex.

It wouldn’t work, not when Harry was so shamelessly beautiful, but Draco had no problem with banter. He clasped the hand back, and asked, with a smirk, “And who is the professional Seeker here? My sources tell me that you’ve barely been on a broom in the last few years, let alone played professional Quidditch.”

“And I hadn’t been on a broom before I came to Hogwarts, either,” Harry said calmly. Again he darted a flash of that grin at Draco. “That reminds me. I never did thank you for stealing Neville’s Remembrall and helping me get on the Gryffindor House Quidditch team, did I?”

Draco narrowed his eyes. Such an insult deserved retaliation, and he achieved it by opening his left hand and letting the Golden Snitch imprisoned there dart out.

Harry ducked before he realized what it was, and then shouted as he saw Draco surging up on his Comet 2003 and giving chase. A moment later, he was in pursuit, his face grimly set when Draco looked back at him.

The grimness had a heavy undertone of excitement, though, and Draco felt a familiar tightening in his gut. This was what Harry had looked like during game after game at Hogwarts.

Those were good memories—or, at least, so old that the sting had faded from them. Besides, Draco was determined to beat Harry this time.

The Falcons’ home practice pitch was bigger than the Hogwarts one by several times, with stands around it capable of seating nearly a thousand people. And it was a challenging day for flying, with a brisk enough wind that Draco worried just a little about his seat on the broom, and such rapidly moving clouds that a constantly changing dazzle of shade and sunlight passed across them. Draco knew every nook and cranny of this pitch, and he suspected he would capture the little golden ball before Harry did.

A flash of motion caught his eye, but it turned out to be Harry himself, crouched forwards on his Firebolt, his head turning restlessly from side to side. Draco grinned fiercely at him, though he didn’t think the other wizard noticed.

 _God_ , it felt good to be up here, with a competitor worthy of him. Since Harry had sharpened his senses and clarified his mind, Draco had felt that the normal Seekers in the league were no challenge.

Together, they circled and darted like falcons themselves, sometimes feinting to make each other think the Snitch lay in a particular direction. Draco felt his breathing calm into a deep, quiet register, which was the exact opposite of what usually happened when he played. Then, he hissed through his teeth.

But, with Harry beside him…

He liked this. Just the two of them. He liked it well enough to want to do it again, and again, and again.

Abruptly, Harry gave a shout and snatched at the air. Draco snapped his head sideways, eyes locking on another flash of motion.

And then he realized Harry had used the oldest Seeker’s trick in the book, and distracted him into looking one way while he flew another, bent over his broom with one hand grasping at empty air.

Draco grinned narrowly and unleashed the Comet’s full speed. He shot forwards, and in moments he was under Harry, in danger of receiving a boot in the head. He had seen the Snitch now, too, and from the angle, he judged he would grab it first if he could come in under Harry.

Harry must have known that, too. He slanted down past Draco, so close their thighs brushed, and then slanted up again like a hawk uncertain of the kill. Now he was slightly ahead.

Draco flung himself into a twisting roll, and found his broom spinning past Harry. For one moment, his mate’s scent filled his nostrils, and his head swam, and his lungs inflated.

But along with that came the irresistible impulse to impress his mate. He stretched further than he could really afford, which made his shoulder muscles scream, and then the Snitch was in his hand. It burned cold from its travels through the wind, and its wings fluttered madly.

Harry’s hand, briefly touching his, burned more.

Draco pulled up, and tried to laugh. His throat hurt from the air he’d swallowed, and he had to lick his lips several times before he said, “I suppose we know who _is_ the professional Seeker here now.”

“Beginner’s luck,” Harry said, looking unruffled, unless the deep burn in his eyes revealed anger or eagerness. “Best two out of three?”

Draco smirked at him. The sun made the Snitch flare as he tossed it free again, and then Harry was past him like some wingless demon and after it. Draco followed, the contentment settled in his stomach like a full meal.

*

In the end, he caught the Snitch three times, Harry two. They landed on the grass of the pitch two hours later, with Harry’s cheeks flushed from the wind and his voice hoarse from yelling insults. He reached out and shook Draco’s hand that didn’t hold the Snitch the moment it came free from the broom.

“I take back any comments I may have made about beginner’s luck,” he said. “You really _are_ a good Seeker, Draco.”

It was lovely to watch the way his face flushed the moment he realized what name he had used.

Draco gave a low laugh and stepped closer. The Veela had been drugged into insensibility for most of the afternoon by the sheer fact that its mate was close and associating with it willingly, but it revived now like a gold-white heat shimmer. Draco could feel the same tension coiling in his groin. He was already hard.

He reached out and carefully grasped Harry’s wrist, drawing him in so that he could kiss him.

Harry made a muffled exclamation as the wings coalesced into being above Draco’s shoulders and swept around them, shielding them from the view of anyone who might be watching—not that anyone would be, since no one else Draco knew was mad enough to practice on a day they actually had off. Draco settled the wings carefully against Harry’s back, and heard him gasp and shiver. And then he relaxed, and closed his eyes, and his voice was full of pleasure.

“That’s—nice. Really nice.”

“I thought you would like them,” Draco said, making sure to keep his tone simple and soft and honest, without a hint of smugness. That would probably wake Harry and drive him away. He didn’t want him to wake.

He waved his wand and murmured the spell that would banish his Quidditch gear, all the while cradling Harry with the wings, a few feet away from him. Then they sank onto the ground, Draco flexing the large primaries so that he could press Harry closer still. He hadn’t been sure this would work, but it seemed he _could_ control these Veela attributes, just like its desires, when he concentrated.

They landed on the soft grass of the Pitch, Draco naked, Harry still clothed. Harry’s eyes snapped open for a moment, and he gazed down at Draco seriously.

“I can’t let you touch me,” he said. “I promised Ginny I wouldn’t.”

Draco smiled at him. “I know that,” he said. “The time you spent with me is an adequate substitute.” Then he stretched up to kiss Harry again, while at the same time rolling his body a bit so that Harry was in a better position to reach down and wrap his hand around Draco’s erection.

It had never been like this, without a sense of guilt or shame or need so desperate as to almost banish the pleasure. Draco _liked_ it like this, with Harry’s hand slowly but not hesitantly stroking him, with Harry’s face hovering above his, with Harry staring at him as if he didn’t know quite what to make of him.

The heat built slowly this time, Draco making low eager noises to urge Harry along. The Veela had by this time so joined with him that it didn’t feel separate at all when he arched his back and caught Harry close for a final kiss just before he came.

Harry closed his eyes and moaned freely.

 _That_ was what brought Draco’s release, suddenly and hard. Almost in surprise, he clutched at Harry with both wings and arms, and cried out as he poured across his hand. And then he let himself sag, the wings falling around them both like a tent, as he panted and tried to convince himself that moving was a good idea.

The sun shone steadily now, warm on their skin. Harry lay quiescent, seemingly content to be embraced. Draco didn’t want to move, that was the trouble. He didn’t want to stand up and walk away from the pitch, either, and back into a world where Harry barely tolerated him.

He stroked Harry’s hair, and remained silent. This time, he could think of the inevitable awkward words.

*

Harry was painfully, embarrassingly, mortifyingly hard.

He wasn’t sure he could blame it on Veela magic this time, either. From the moment the wings had touched him, he had just—relaxed. The only thing he could compare it to was the sleep he’d had in Malfoy’s bed. Nothing much had mattered, once the wings embraced him. The intimacy between them was only natural, and Harry hadn’t sought for someone to blame for the accident or the fact that Malfoy’s Veela had chosen him as its mate. He had just acted, just done what he had to do, only to find that doing it with a willing heart and hand was—

Incredibly arousing.

At last, he swallowed and sat up, letting the moment fall away from them like Malfoy’s wings were doing. That was when he found that it refused to fall away. Malfoy’s eyes studied him, and though he didn’t smile, his face was intense. It was incredibly hard to look away.

“You won’t deny that, I hope,” Malfoy said at last, softly. “That was beautiful, and you know it.”

Harry closed his eyes. Then he shook his head, and rose stiffly to his feet. Malfoy scrambled up at once, not seeming to notice he was naked to wind and sun and anyone who might come by, with an exclamation.

“I thought you’d had your leg healed—“ he said, reaching out.

“Playing Quidditch like that—“ Harry began hastily, but Malfoy’s hand had already collided with his groin.

Silence, for one excruciating instant. Harry waited for the mocking words.

“After lovemaking like that,” was all Malfoy said, “I would have worried about you if you _didn’t_ react, Harry.”

And then he pulled his hand back.

Unable to believe he was escaping so easily, Harry opened his eyes. Malfoy gave him an easy smile as he moved to gather up his robes, which lay at a short distance, tossed there by the charm.

“The Veela’s gone entirely,” he added. “I think what it _really_ wanted was communion with you. True sharing. You shared yourself, Harry, and I doubt I’ll need you again this month. Thank you.”

Harry ducked his head, his cheeks fiercely stinging, and murmured, “You’re welcome, Malfoy.”

“And still you won’t call me Draco?”

The voice was teasing, coaxing, and Harry wondered if there was any way not to feel bad about refusing.

He still had a promise to Ginny, though, so he smiled, said, “I’m afraid not,” and pretended not to see the other man’s disappointment. As he picked up the Firebolt, he added, with the same kind of inspiration that had prompted him to speak to Ginny about their holiday, “But I am planning to come your game at the beginning of May.”

Malfoy’s breath hitched. Then he said, “Really,” as if trying to disguise how interested he was.

“Yes.” Harry looked up and caught his eyes.

Malfoy was still mostly naked, only his pants and shirt on. He was looking at Harry with keen interest. And what Harry thought when he watched him was, _Holy God, he’s beautiful._

He remained looking, which took more courage than facing Alecto Carrow had. Malfoy tilted his head, and said, “You don’t need to do it just to prove a point.”

“I know,” said Harry. “I want to.”

A smile ran around Malfoy’s face like sunlight.

Harry gave his head a little shake. He’d always tried to do the right thing, but now, he was not sure what the right thing was, other than the course of action that would cause the least amount of pain to the least number of people. Going to see Malfoy’s Quidditch game was a small sacrifice, just as playing today had been, and playing today had enabled him to keep his promise to Ginny. He could get through this. Really, he could.

A small voice in the back of his head whispered that this balancing act would soon become impossible, but Harry ignored it. Little voices like that were only right about half the time.

“I have to leave,” he said, and started to nod a farewell, but Malfoy coughed. Harry glanced at him.

“You have, ah, come on your robes,” Malfoy said quietly.

Harry flushed, and waved his wand to Vanish the white fluid, listening to Malfoy chuckle with only a little resentment. God knew he had the right to laugh, and going home to Ginny with that on him would have angered her further.

*

Draco resisted, barely, the temptation to summon his wings back and do a victory dance, still mostly naked, all over the Quidditch Pitch as Harry Apparated away.

Harry wanted to spend time with him. He _wanted_ it.

Draco had never felt better in his life. Even the thought of the cold, silent running argument he would return to when he got home, in the form of Pansy’s anger over Harry, could not damp his spirits. He felt lifted and still both at once—utterly exalted and utterly at peace.

It still might mean nothing. It still might end when the year was over.

But.

Someone who could challenge him, someone who could make his own sacrifices in answer to Draco’s, someone who could make him feel that damn good…

Draco knew he wouldn’t find it easy to let him go.


	8. May (Part One)

“So we’ll spend two days on the ocean and…” Harry glanced up. “What do you think? A day in the sanctuary the Aztec wizards have up in the mountains? Or do you want to spend the next five days in San Luis Potosí?”

Ginny smiled at him. “Wherever you think best, Harry. You were the one who decided to arrange this holiday, after all.”

Harry smiled back, but he had to work hard not to snap the quill with which he was writing the letter that would detail his holiday to Kingsley, so that his superior would know where he was in case of an emergency. He _wanted_ input from Ginny; this was supposed to be for her, really, and he didn’t want to arrange a schedule or location that would displease her.

But always there was the shadow in the back of her eyes, just like there was the shadow that always hung between them now.

Ginny had watched the events of his last meeting with Malfoy in Harry’s Pensieve, and since then she had spent a lot of time avoiding his gaze, answering slowly when he spoke to her, and giving him desperately sad looks when she thought he wasn’t watching. Most of the time, it drove Harry frantic. He could feel his marriage practically falling apart around his ears, when he’d taken measures he thought should save it.

The rest of the time, he was angry. He had tried so hard, and he’d kept his promise to her. Why couldn’t she be contented with that?

And then he would feel guilty for feeling angry, and waver back into fear again.

“Two days on the ocean, a day in the sanctuary, and four days in San Luis Potosí,” he said, making his voice light and turning back to the parchment. “I think that will work.”

Ginny made a soft, uninterested sound beside him. Then she said, “Have you told Malfoy you’ll be leaving for Mexico?”

“Not yet,” Harry said. “He has a Quidditch game this Saturday. I’ll tell him then.”

“So you’ll watch it?”

Harry took a deep breath and glanced up. “Yes. Is that a problem?”

God, her smile was so sad and so bitter that it stung Harry more fiercely than Alecto Carrow’s acid curse had. “Why should it be?” she asked, turning away. She used a hand to shade her eyes as she looked out the window. “After all, your lover deserves to know how long the holiday you take with your wife is.”

Harry closed his eyes. “Please, Ginny, don’t be like this,” he whispered.

“And how should I be?” Her voice was as pitilessly clear as the shriek Harry had heard from Malfoy’s throat when he was sick back in March. “My husband takes on a lover—only to save that lover’s life, of course—and then doesn’t want to talk about him with his wife?”

Startled, Harry looked at her again, but he could only see her profile, and he’d never been good at reading her mood from anything less than a full expression. “I’m _not_ his lover,” he said. “I just make him come.”

“And he made _you_ come, too,” Ginny muttered, “More wildly, more happily than I ever do.”

Harry flushed crimson. He didn’t know how to explain how different that was. Malfoy had turned Veela magic on him that evening, and he’d hated it in retrospect: that feeling of absolute lack of control, absolute surrender, pleasure so great it choked him and made him scream. With Ginny, Harry was careful and held himself in check, taking control of his body so he could guide hers to climax. Or, at least, he had. They hadn’t made love since her accident, because her spine was still too fragile, and when Harry had offered to pleasure her in other ways, Ginny had simply shaken her head.

“You’re the only one who makes me feel like I _want_ to feel,” he said, hoping that would help.

Ginny sighed. “The Pensieve showed me, Harry. There’s no way you didn’t enjoy that.”

His blush was so hot that Harry felt uncomfortable. He coughed and stared down, not seeing the parchment in front of him. “It’s—how good it felt doesn’t matter,” he said. He knew his voice was weak, but he had to try to explain. Now that he thought about it, it made perfect sense that Ginny would feel hatred for Harry’s enjoyment. She might be feeling inadequate after the accident, sure that Harry preferred Malfoy’s embrace because she couldn’t compete on that playing field right now. “I like being able to choose what I do, Gin. And I couldn’t, with him.”

“He used Veela allure?” For some reason, she sounded surprised.

Harry glanced up, and reminded himself that Pensieves showed only what happened, not the inner, private thoughts of everyone involved. “Yes, he did. I agreed to let him touch me, but that moment when I start trying to pull away? Yeah. That’s the point where he called it, so I would stop trying to get free and surrender to him.”

She turned fully to face him, and her expression was open and forgiving in a way Harry hadn’t seen in months. He couldn’t help reaching out and embracing her, breathing in the scent of her hair as she leaned against him.

“Harry,” she whispered. “Harry. I didn’t know.” Her hands wandered up and tangled with his hair in turn. “Oh, you must think I’m an awful person, the way I’ve gone on.”

“Not at all.” Harry closed his eyes. “This would have been hard for me if _you_ were the one who had to be his mate. I know it’s difficult for you. And—sometimes I wish I hadn’t started this compromise at all.” He still didn’t see what else he could have done—nothing would spare Malfoy and yet preserve some semblance of their lives—but he wished he hadn’t been forced into making this decision. “I want to come home and forget he exists. Each time. I promise.”

 _Liar_ , said his subconscious.

Harry ignored it. It was wrong. What reaction he had to Malfoy was just that, reaction, and if he tried to tear down the barriers between them, because—

_Because he’s incredibly stupid? Because the Veela controls him more than he ever knew?_

Then Harry would just put them back again. He felt sorry for Malfoy, but he owed Ginny a greater duty than mere pity.

He said nothing while she cried; she didn’t like having her tears acknowledged. And then she sat up, and began talking gaily of the holiday in Mexico, which places they should visit, and how she really wanted to see cathedrals more than sanctuaries, could he add an extra day in the city? And a large Muggle city. She wanted to see that. And perhaps some of the small villages?

Harry felt the first touch of real happiness he’d had in a while, unless one counted that day on the pitch with Malfoy. Which didn’t count at all, of course.

 _Liar_ , said his subconscious.

Harry ignored it. He was really quite good at that.

*

Draco shook his head at himself as he flew rings around the Cannons’ incompetent Seeker. He wondered that he could ever have thought his mate was in the crowd that day in February, when he’d played in front of Potter’s partner and wife. The sensation was incredibly different now that he _knew_ Harry was there.

Now, strength seemed practically to flow from his mate to him, a cord of warmth and magical power that struck Draco in the middle of the back. When he glanced down, he caught Harry’s eyes at once, and he could even see them, too, in all their brilliant green, from this height.

_Surely someone will see and declare this advantage I gain from him illegal any moment now!_

But no one did, and Draco flew on, warmed both by the sun above and the second sun below that shone only for him.

The Cannons would never have been a challenge, except perhaps for the one week in March when Draco had been dying for Harry’s touch. Draco danced around the Seeker, the Falcons’ Chasers danced around their Bludgers, and the Cannons’ Keeper might as well have been a piece of Swiss cheese, so ineffectively did he block the Falcons’ shots with the Quaffle. Draco listened to their fans cheer from beneath him, and smiled complacently.

He realized how intently he’d been listening for one voice only when he heard it.

It was simple, just a call of his name—his last name—but it struck Draco like a Bludger of its own. Heat flared through his ears, traveled down his body, and made his heart throb and his vision waver. He licked his lips and turned his broom so that he could observe Harry again.

Harry, who was on his feet, one arm pumping in the air, his face flushed with excitement.

Draco had to fight to keep himself from growing wings. He wanted to spread them and turn them so that Harry could admire them. _Anything_ to make his mate as infatuated with him as Draco was with Harry right in that moment.

Then a real Bludger whistled past his head, and he reminded himself that he was in the middle of a Quidditch game. And that Harry was the Veela’s mate, really, and not his, so he should be thinking in those terms.

The Bludger traveled past a second time. Doubtless the Cannons’ Beaters had heard about how formidable Draco suddenly was, and wanted to take him out of commission as soon as possible.

And Draco thought of another way he could impress Harry.

*

Harry had meant to stay as academic and reserved as possible, so that when he placed these memories in the Pensieve to show to Ginny, she would have nothing to blame him for.

But he couldn’t help himself. It was _Quidditch_ , and professional Quidditch at that. Harry hadn’t been to a game like this in almost a year. And at the last one, he’d been there as an Auror, watching out for a threat to a star player, and had to dash out halfway through the match to apprehend their suspect.

Here, he was completely and totally absorbed in what happened in front of him, judging Malfoy’s Seeker moves with a practiced eye, and he warmed to what he did and found himself on his feet yelling along with the rest when Malfoy executed a perfect turn in midair.

Then the Beaters focused on Malfoy and began slinging their Bludgers at him. Harry felt a touch of concern, but shrugged it off. Bludgers were part of the hazards of every Seeker’s job. Malfoy could dodge them, certainly.

Then Malfoy turned _towards_ them.

Harry felt every muscle in his back tense. He leaned forwards, then back again as he realized a tall man’s head in front of him blocked his view. His breath came so short that his vision fuzzed for a moment, and he licked his lips. He wished now that he’d bought the Omnioculars a man outside the pitch had been selling.

Full sunshine silhouetted Malfoy for a moment, and then both Beaters twisted in a well-coordinated movement and swung their bats, hitting the Bludgers towards him with a dull thump that echoed louder to Harry than any other sound in the world at that moment.

_Malfoy!_

He knew he cried the name, though what he hoped to do from the ground was rather a moot point. If his Firebolt had been beside him at that moment, he would have hopped on it and gone to rescue Malfoy, and never mind that it would have caused the Falcons to forfeit the game.

Malfoy balanced there on his broom, poised, so unconcerned that Harry believed for one long moment he hadn’t seen the balls coming at all.

And then he flipped forwards, and began to dance with them.

There was no other word for what he did. The balls wove around each other, vicious iron slugs worse than any Muggle bullet, which Harry had occasionally seen close at hand when the Aurors’ jurisdiction crossed over into a Muggle one. They both hit a Beater’s bat at the same time, and once again caromed towards the Seeker. Harry almost imagined he could hear them uttering hungry shrieks, eager to take and down prey.

Malfoy dropped neatly out of the middle of them, so that one dodged past him to the right and one to the left. The Beaters hurried over and hit them as soon as possible, once again turning towards them the waiting Seeker.

This time, Harry held his breath and waited to see what Malfoy would do.

Lazily, it seemed, he waited until they were right in front of his broom, and then he wheeled head over bristles, turning backwards faster than the Bludgers could possibly move. For a moment, the move so confused the enchanted balls that they wavered in midair, and then started to wander off in pursuit of other players. The Cannons’ Beaters, probably convinced by Malfoy’s flying skills that he was still a danger, chased after them and herded them back towards their chosen target.

This time, the Beaters made sure they came from opposite sides and that each traced a wavering course, so that it seemed Malfoy couldn’t possibly pull any trick that would enable him to avoid both.

Harry felt his throat tighten. If he were ordinarily someone who prayed, he would have been tempted to do it then.

Malfoy flung up a lazy hand, and then began whirling in place. Still he didn’t move, though, and still the Bludgers were free to fly towards him. Harry distantly felt a pain in his knuckles, and guessed that his hands were clenching too hard.

He didn’t care. He had to do something. Or Malfoy had to, rather. Didn’t he _see_ the Bludgers?

They flew towards him. Closer. Closer. The one on the left would brush his leg if it flew a few more inches.

And then Malfoy simply rose from between them, in such a whirl of speed that he briefly became a blur like the bird his team was named for. The Bludgers tried to alter course after him, but they were flying too fast themselves. They slammed together with a crack that attracted eyes from all over the pitch.

Harry wasn’t the only one to surge to his feet in the next moment, yelling in sheer exultation.

_God, he can fly. He can really fly._

Harry had intended to speak to Malfoy briefly after the game, if at all, and return home as soon as possible. Now he knew it would have to be a longer conversation. No one who had ever played Seeker could let a move like that pass unremarked.

*

Draco accepted the congratulations of his teammates and the compliments of other Seekers on his technique complacently. His team had won the match, of course. And normally Draco quite adored the fawning that followed for its own sake, but in this case, he wanted to wait and see a particular special person he hoped would come up and speak to him soon.

He had caught just a glimpse of Harry’s face. But that had been enough. It had simultaneously satisfied him and stirred a desire for more.

He recognized the sensation that trickled up his throat, like swallowing hot tea in reverse. One of the books on Veela had described it.

The Veela in him was in the mood to court its mate.

Draco would have laughed—after all, the mating had come before the courting, for them—but the emotions that filled him didn’t lend themselves to laughter, except perhaps short bursts of it snatched between snoggings. The urge to _display_ consumed him. He wanted to show his wings to Harry, to show off his flying to Harry, to show how well he could cast spells and how powerful his magic was. He wanted to see those green eyes soften with wonder and delight, with awe and adoration for _him_.

And it was mattering to him less and less now whether those emotions were his or the Veela’s. He _wanted_ Harry. Did it really matter why?

Harry would almost certainly say it did. Pansy would say it did, Draco knew. But he was becoming accustomed to considering the needs of the Veela before Pansy’s, and—

Well.

He would deal with Harry’s objections as they came up.

 _Finally_ , there he was, shoving his way through the thick press of people gathered around the other players. His eyes were still brilliant with joy, the kind that Draco had seen there when they played each other a few weeks ago, plus something else that Draco thought might be sheer appreciation. It was easier to trace another fellow’s movements when you were below him, after all, rather than right beside him and competing for the same Snitch to boot.

“What a wonderful game,” Harry said warmly, seizing Draco’s arm in a hand that made him feel as if his muscles had briefly turned to melting butter. “And you were a large part of what was wonderful about it.”

Draco drew Harry carefully towards the back of the room and away from the crowd, wishing that some place sheltered enough for him to spread his wings existed. But he couldn’t risk it without rumors getting back to the entire wizarding world, given how many reporters were here.

“Someone who heard that might think you were flirting with me,” he murmured, bending his head so that his eyes fixed on Harry’s.

Typically, Harry flushed and shifted backwards, only to find that Draco had casually curled one of his own hands around Harry’s so he could only go so far. Then he summoned that courage that Draco knew had led him to make this bargain in the first place, and shifted his eyes up. “They might think that, yes,” he said. “But since we’re both married, they wouldn’t be very smart for thinking it.”

Draco laughed softly. Harry was not as good at denying the attraction as he was at exploiting it. “Marriage matters very little in the face of a juicy rumor,” he said, and then turned the conversation towards the game, since it seemed Harry absolutely did _not_ want to continue this discussion. The Veela needed to hear more compliments from its mate’s mouth, and Draco had to admit he wouldn’t mind them either. “So, what was your favorite part of the match?”

“When you flew out from between those two Bludgers.” Harry’s face held something akin to awe, and Draco remembered that, as a Seeker himself, Harry would have an excellent idea of how much skill that maneuver had taken. “It was brilliant, of course, but _stupid_. Why’d you do it?”

“To show off,” Draco said simply.

Harry rolled his eyes. “And that’s what dominates every game? When you finally went after the Snitch, you looked in deadly earnest to me.”

“ _Finally_?”

“You could have taken the Snitch at any time, Draco, and you know it.”

Just like at their Quidditch game, Harry realized he’d broken his self-imposed barrier against saying Draco’s first name a moment later and flushed. Unlike at their Quidditch game, Draco saw no reason to deny himself the pleasure of noticing it. He’d ignored it in favor of kissing Harry last time, but that wasn’t an option here.

“I like the way you say my name,” he murmured.

Harry waved his free hand, his face still red. “No. Forget it, Malfoy. I shouldn’t have done that, not when—“

“I don’t want to ignore it,” Draco said, his mood shifting. He enjoyed the compliments and the way that Harry kept tumbling into a deeper intimacy despite himself, but he hated the evasion Harry engaged in, attempting to deny something that Draco didn’t want to deny any longer. “What’s the harm in using each other’s first names, Harry? What’s the harm in visiting me, playing Quidditch with me?” He lifted his other hand and stroked a curl of that wild black hair, taking a deep breath. Pansy’s utterly tamed and neat blonde hair had become more unappealing than ever to him lately. “What’s the harm in letting me fuck you?” he asked into Harry’s ear.

A sudden twist he’d probably learned in Auror training, and Harry broke free. Draco blinked as the Veela cried out in the back of his mind. He hadn’t realized just how close they’d been, or how much he’d been enjoying that closeness.

Harry’s eyes were darker than they had been, though Draco didn’t know if that was honestly released passion or if he’d moved into a different patch of light. His voice had altered completely, becoming clipped and harsh. “It’s all the difference in the world. God, Draco— _Malfoy_ , you know it is. We’re _married_. You seem to want to forget that. I won’t.” He glanced at the ring on Draco’s finger as if to memorize the sight.

“I want this more,” Draco said.

 _Well_. He hadn’t meant to be quite that blunt. Perhaps the Veela had seized control of his mouth temporarily. But it was no use regretting the past. He watched Harry to see what he would do.

Harry laughed, a short, sharp sound not much different from a grunt. “That doesn’t matter,” he said. “I don’t.”

Draco lowered his voice, which had the effect of making Harry lean in to hear more whether he wanted to or not. “I think you’ll find that I’m quite insistent when it comes to getting what I want,” he said.

“Yeah, you would be,” said Harry. “And you don’t quite seem to understand, _Malfoy_. I’m here to give you what you need to survive. No more than that. My loyalty lies with Ginny, still. That’s what I chose to be my life, and that will be my life long after the Veela has faded from your mind.” He put his chin up stubbornly.

There was a limit to the Veela’s unconditional adoration of its mate, after all. Instead of thinking how beautiful Harry was, Draco felt a surge of irritation. “And for that, you would—“

“ _You’re_ the one who’s stepping past boundaries you set, not me!” Harry’s eyes sparked, and so did his wand, which he must have pulled out when Draco wasn’t looking. “We _all_ made this agreement, and Ginny and Pansy and I have all tried to keep it. You’re the only one who wants to break it.”

“I had help in breaking it,” Draco snarled.

Harry flushed again. “Against my will,” he said. “And that started out as my helping you get what you needed, so you wouldn’t die. That’s the only reason I ever touched you, let alone let you touch me.”

That hurt, emotionally, more than anything had since his parents’ deaths. Draco put a steadying hand on his own chest, and supposed, grimly, that the Veela must still be separate enough from him to have its own opinion on events. _He_ would not take rejection from Harry bloody Potter so hard.

“So you were only trying to be a hero at the start,” he said. “That doesn’t matter now. It’s gone further than that, and you know it.”

Harry ignored him entirely. “Look, do you need my hand now?” he asked abruptly. “Or will you be all right without it for another week and a half?”

“Why a week and a half?” Draco demanded. That seemed an oddly specific time.

“I’m visiting Mexico with Ginny.” Harry shrugged. “We’re leaving tomorrow and not returning until the Wednesday after next. If you start starving and dying in that time, it’s a bit hard for me to Floo into the Manor and do what’s necessary, you know.”

Draco choked as that jealousy attacked him again, bitter as rotten eggs. Rushing forwards, he put his hands on either side of Harry’s head, pinning him to the wall, encircling him. Harry just firmed his jaw and looked up at him without a trace of fear, his hand lightly touching his wand.

“I don’t want you with _her_ , like that,” he whispered.

“Then we have a problem, Malfoy, because, you see, she’s my _wife_.” Harry gave his head a slight shake. “I can see how that fact might have escaped you, since you’re so insistent on my belonging to you. But, regardless, I’ve made the plans.” He folded his arms, his face as expressive as a sheet of iron. “If I need to touch you before and after, then I’ll do it. That’s why I asked you that question.”

Draco closed his eyes for a moment, resisting the impulse to scream. It would do no good. Could the Veela survive that long without the hand of its mate?

The Veela answered the way it usually did, without words. They could not speak to each other; so far as Draco knew, the Veela was largely unaware of his existence except as a block on its actions and its desires. But it dreamed, and it fantasized, and Draco knew from the contents of the fantasies what the body they both shared needed to live.

“I can live until you come back,” he said, opening his eyes.

Harry’s burgeoning smile froze and died when Draco added, “But when you come back, I’ll want your mouth.”

Harry’s eyes slid downwards, probably without his willing it, and sought Draco’s groin. Draco leaned slightly into him. He was half-hard, and had been since he touched Harry. Now his erection stiffened completely.

“And there’s no way around it?” Harry looked slightly sick.

“No.” Draco shook his head and ran a hand through Harry’s hair, lowering his head into it to memorize the scent. His mouth twitched with the urge to bite, but Veela only did that in extreme cases, when they wanted to track their mates and keep them safe, and then only at the mate’s request. “Time to prove to me how much of a hero you really are,” he whispered into Harry’s ear.

Harry shrugged stiffly, his shoulder nearly bumping into Draco’s chin. “Nothing heroic about it,” he said. “Just doing what everyone needs. And if this needs to happen, then yes, I’ll do it.”

Draco pulled back, quick enough that Harry blinked in the wake of his speed, and then put his hand on Harry’s pulsepoint, briefly pinning his head in place. “Have you thought about what _you_ need?” he asked.

Harry’s face became that iron mask again. “I’ll see you on Thursday, Malfoy,” he said, pried Draco’s hand away, and walked out of the locker room with a noticeable stiffness in his stride. Sadly, Draco thought, watching him, none of that stiffness was due to arousal.

_Probably._

Most of the well-wishers had cleared away while he spoke to Harry. He stripped off his Quidditch gear, went in to shower, and ended up wanking while he dreamed of Harry on his knees, mouth open to suck his cock.

The moment of orgasm came when he imagined Harry speaking his first name, deliberately and with affection aforethought.

*

Mexico was a misery for Harry.

They had decided to travel part of the time as Muggles, and so, though they Flooed into a local wizarding station, they checked into a Muggle hotel with the help of currency changed in Diagon Alley. The hotel was on the Gulf of Mexico, letting them see the rolling breakers bounding up any time they glanced out the window. They could walk on the beach in the morning—well, Harry walked, pushing Ginny in a wheelchair—and feel the slap of the air, wet and cold, against them, and watch the gray of the morning slowly clear as the sun lifted. Harry had never seen gold like it, nor blue or green like the colors in the water.

Ginny laughed and enjoyed it, as she enjoyed their trip in a glass-bottomed boat to a small island whose name tripped Harry up every time he tried to pronounce it, and the sunlight they spent an hour in each day, and the bus they rode around the city—which bumped them up and down so roughly that several times they left the seats—and the Spanish that buzzed around them instead of English.

But, too often, her face darkened. When she caught sight of the wheelchair wheels or her crutches, for example, or when she looked at Harry, as if she were remembering they hadn’t made love since March.

Harry would speak quickly when he saw her looking like that, trying to draw her attention to some trace of color or quirk of the ocean or air she hadn’t noticed yet, or using his incompetent Spanish to make the people around him stare and her laugh. Sometimes it worked. When it didn’t, she would sink into a gentle, resigned silence for at least an hour, while Harry tried and failed to find something to cheer her up.

He felt as if her happiness were a great glass ball he was carrying, and the slightest bump would make it drop and shatter.

He found himself falling into the same mood that he assumed for the inevitable occasions each year when political obligations forced him to acknowledge his part in defeating Voldemort, and he had to become the hero people expected to see: not the battered, wounded, patient, dutiful Auror he actually was most of the time, but the gleaming persona with equally gleaming eyes and hair and teeth, and only the single, famous scar on his forehead to mar his appearance. He could make them believe he was that hero, through nothing more than the way he turned his head and the words he spoke.

He managed the same thing with Ginny, but it was bloody exhausting.

They left the ocean on Tuesday, and Apparated to the Aztec sanctuary. Harry didn’t remember much about it. Some shadows, some music that impressed him with its dissonance, some carvings in stone that looked important, and at one point a guide told them a story that seemed to Harry’s confused brain to include the moon, an army of stars, a coyote, a woman with a skirt of serpents, and a sacrifice of some kind. He _couldn’t_ pay more attention than that. All his attention had to go to Ginny.

She appeared to enjoy it. At least the sanctuary took her out of herself, and she didn’t fall into another of her apathetic silences.

On Wednesday came San Luis Potosí, and for several days they wandered through tangled streets and into more cathedrals than Harry could count, every one of them thronged with shadows and age. Ginny _did_ enjoy that, leaning back in the wheelchair to take pictures, and to admire the soaring ceilings. Harry was grateful; he could relax for long moments when her eyes weren’t on him, and let his sore muscles uncoil from their tense positions, before Ginny turned back to him to share a comment and he had to do everything that would show he loved her and nothing that might suggest he was thinking of Malfoy.

The more times he had to do that, the more it frightened him. Enjoying himself with Ginny had never been an effort before.

But he tried to stay cheerful while they were in the city, and then when they went to Morelia, the large Muggle city that Ginny had asked to visit. She took pictures of everything, from streets with four lanes of traffic—which Ginny had never seen before—to bougainvillea plants to a tiny green spider that fell onto Harry’s shoulder and tried to climb to the ground with a small thread of silk. Harry knew that one photograph would come out with him gingerly gripping the silk and placing the spider back on the ground, as he hadn’t the slight idea whether it was venomous. He only helped it didn’t show his grimace.

They lingered in Morelia for their remaining time in Mexico, and didn’t end up visiting the villages that Ginny had wanted to see after all. As they prepared to Floo home, however, Ginny squeezed Harry’s hand and said that she didn’t mind.

“We’ll just have to see them on the _next_ trip to Mexico,” she said.

Harry smiled. He knew he smiled. It just _felt_ like forcing the muscles of his face to work when they’d been hit with a numbing charm.

Their house was almost a relief after all that, though, since he was alone with Ginny, Harry wasn’t sure why it should be. Perhaps it had something to do with not being in public any longer, however. If Ginny grew upset at him, they could raise their voices and argue as they never could with Muggles watching.

He waited for Ginny to begin the first argument, but she never had a chance. A large black eagle-owl sat in the center of their dining room table, clearly awaiting them, and the moment Harry stepped out of the fireplace with Ginny held carefully in his arms, it began beating its wings and leaping up and down. Its hoots were urgent and erratic, and Harry could see that it had a letter tied to its leg.

“It’s Malfoy, isn’t it?” Ginny asked, her voice curiously flat.

Harry winced, but tried not to let it show as he helped her into her chair and arranged the blankets over her legs. The Healers had said she should be able to walk, carefully, without crutches in a few more weeks, but she’d moved around a lot in Mexico, with them and with the wheelchair. She shouldn’t strain herself.

“For God’s sake, Harry,” Ginny said, her voice tired. No, more than that, Harry thought, stepping back to study her expression—but she foiled his effort by turning her face away and shutting her eyes. “Just take the damn letter.”

Harry nodded, not that she could see it, and went to the owl. It leaped to his shoulder, making him wince as the talons clamped down on his skin. Then a scaled leg was thrust in his face, and he removed the letter from it, his hands feeling as numb as his face as he undid the twine.

The letter was brief— _Come to the Manor when you receive this, Harry_ —and the moment he opened it, the owl launched itself from him and out the window. Malfoy hadn’t wanted a reply, Harry thought, or hadn’t appreciated the necessity of it. He had just assumed Harry would do what he was told.

He started to put the letter down, but Ginny’s voice spoke from behind him, all the carefully cultivated cheer gone out of it. “You might as well go, Harry. If you don’t, you’ll lie awake wondering about him all night.”

“That’s not fair, Gin,” Harry said quietly, folding and then tearing the letter into small pieces, which he Vanished with a flick of his wand. “I don’t care about him _more_ than you. And I only started this—“

“So he wouldn’t die, I know. I’ve heard all the justifications twice over, remember, Harry?” A weak sound, which might be Ginny’s hand waving and then falling back against the arm of the chair. “Just go.”

An abrupt, stinging feeling caught him in the corners of his eyes. Astonished, Harry realized that, for the first time in years, he felt as if he might cry from sheer frustration

He shook his head, and strode out of the house, heading for a point where he could Apparate.


	9. May (Part Two)

Draco had been waiting.

The moment Harry appeared outside the Manor, Draco met him. He hadn’t forgotten Harry’s specification that they meet in a place where Harry could Apparate away when he found the passion becoming too intense for him. So Draco took his hand as he still stood there on the path that led up to the double doors, and drew him towards the immense gardens around the back of the house. Harry followed without protest. Draco could feel his weariness in his steps.

Draco probably didn’t care that much about that. How much he cared seemed increasingly to depend on how much Harry would _allow_ him to care.

The gardens had once been his mother’s pride, and then her hobby during the year Lucius was in Azkaban and she still lived in the Manor, but they had long since gone wild, which Draco permitted, as that made a sort of memorial to his mother. For this evening, though, he had instructed the house-elves to clear a path through the shaggy shrubbery and to the gazebo that he remembered as standing opposite the Manor’s large dining room windows. The house-elves had also spared no effort to clean the gazebo, and return it to its former, shining white. A bench sat inside, and two carved chairs, all softened by a series of blankets decorated with dragons that Draco had ordered brought from the Manor. He had known the moment he remembered the gazebo that he wanted to sit on the bench there while Harry knelt in front of him and sucked his cock.

The Veela inside him stirred now and then, in anticipation, but barely did anything else. Draco supposed his constant fantasies of Harry in the last week—he no longer tried to block them from his waking mind—and the fact that he hadn’t slept with Pansy had helped.

Draco felt a sort of academic interest in the future of his own marriage. How long would it last before Pansy decided that the insult to her dignity outweighed the benefits of being a Malfoy wife? Draco thought it might not be much longer.

Still, he wanted her to be the one who began divorce proceedings. Doing it himself would make him look like the one too eager to pursue a lover, and also require confessing the presence of his Veela side to the world much too soon. With Pansy in charge of things, he estimated he had at least a few more months.

He shook the thoughts away as he and Harry mounted the white stone steps into the gazebo at last, and he sat down on the bench. “Now, Harry,” he breathed. He had dreamed of this, wanked to it, and spied on the Veela’s own brightly-colored daydreams. He was sure that the reality would surpass that daydream, the way it always did when it came to Harry.

Harry knelt without a word, and reached out to unbutton his robes. Draco raised an eyebrow. “Not going to undress me?” he asked. “Not going to offer me a word of protest?”

Harry tossed his head back and looked up at him, face just barely visible in the light of the small lanterns the elves had hung around the edges of the gazebo’s roof. His jaw worked, and his eyes were nearly black. Draco blinked. It wasn’t arousal that made them look like that; with arousal, Harry’s eyes grew brighter. Defeat? Despair?

“I have to do this,” Harry said quietly. “But I don’t have to enjoy it. And I don’t think it will satisfy you very much, since I’ve never done it before.”

His fingers pried back Draco’s robes before he could really process the words, and then his pants, and then Harry leaned forwards, with a slight gulp that Draco more felt than heard, and put his mouth around Draco’s erection.

Draco could feel the fumbling hesitancy in the motion. It was true he’d never had a blowjob from a man, but he suspected many must exist out there with more expert mouths than Harry had.

But the heat and the wetness that graced Harry’s mouth were as good as anything Pansy had ever had, and the mere thought that it wasn’t Pansy doing this, but his lover and the Veela’s mate, heightened his pleasure. Draco closed his eyes and leaned back a bit, until he half-reclined, spreading his legs further.

“I’m enjoying it very much, thank you,” he said.

He wasn’t in a position to make eye contact with Harry, but he could feel the glare that answered his words. And then Harry moved forwards a little more, perhaps thinking he could get this over with quickly, and swallowed around him.

Draco cried out in surprise. He had felt the motion before, of course, but the _unexpectedness_ of it… He reached down, clawing for something, and briefly touched Harry’s face before Harry slapped his hand away. Then Harry swallowed again, and the heat and the wetness of his mouth combined together into one long, strong, sucking, continuous pull.

Draco didn’t know where Harry got the endurance or the air for this. He didn’t fucking care. He wasn’t even embarrassed by the small cries that he knew escaped from his mouth now. He rather wished a crowd of people surrounded the gazebo, in fact, so that he could revel in enjoying something he knew they’d never have. The Veela uttered a series of crooning cries in his head, to complement his own sounds.

He felt the long, slow, delicious moment when a pool of golden warmth ignited in his belly, and then his muscles tightened, and his groin flexed, and his hips lifted, and he knew that only—in only moments—there, right, almost there—

He came with a sob, as the pool in his belly took fire. It had never been like that before; he’d always been able to warn Pansy in time. And then the warmth of the orgasm rushed up through his belly and torso in long searing threads to the rest of his body, and _that_ had never happened before, either.

He dropped finally, utterly spent, and heard Harry spit. Draco rolled over on his side, unable to open his eyes, and reached lazily for Harry’s hair.

“Good night, Malfoy,” he heard, and forced his eyes open then, to see Harry flicking his wand to perform a few simple cleaning charms on himself.

And _preparing to depart._

He’d denied Draco even a look at his face, so Draco could see if it was flushed with anger, or mortification, or lust. As he’d denied Draco a sight of him for more than a week.

Draco rose without thought, and summoned his wings, knowing how much Harry liked them. He swept them around Harry’s hunched shoulders, and tugged. To his secret delight, he was indeed stronger than the fragile bones in the wings would have led him to assume, and Harry stumbled back towards him. Draco rearranged his wings again, and now Harry was held against his chest.

This was closer than they had ever been like this, and oh, yes, it was _much_ better. The Veela purred in the back of his head like a cat gone drugged on catnip. Draco dropped his arms over Harry’s torso and kissed his cheek.

Harry made a noise like a child’s protest against going to sleep. The wings relaxed him, Draco knew, enough that he found it hard to want to escape. His hands rose and hovered over the edge of the pinions, then dropped back to his side. But he did still shake his head. “Stop it, Malfoy,” he whispered.

“If I never do anything else with you, Harry, I’m going to make sure you speak my first name without prompting,” Draco muttered, and then rolled back on the bench so that he lay embracing Harry with both arms and wings. Harry relaxed on his chest. For a moment, he seemed inclined to speak, but in the end it lapsed into a deep breath and another restless movement of his hands.

“Now,” Draco whispered. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Even mostly limp, Harry still whipped his head around and spluttered with shock. “What do you mean—“

“You came in looking as if you’d spent the last week fighting Death Eaters with no break, not on holiday.” Draco stroked his hair out of his eyes and nuzzled behind his ear. “And since you left me here to seethe about your wife for that entire time, don’t you think you owe me an explanation?”

It was not, perhaps, the clearest of logic, but Harry, his head swimming slightly with the soporific effect Draco now knew that a Veela’s wings exuded, didn’t seem to notice. He sighed, and said, “I tried to keep Ginny happy, and it didn’t work.”

“Explain to me why not.” Draco shifted a bit so he could trace one finger down Harry’s neck. Harry didn’t seem to notice or mind.

“I—I promised her a holiday without anyone but us,” Harry murmured, closing his eyes. “No talk of you, no talk of—of anything else that makes us upset and worried. Doing what she wanted to do, seeing what she wanted to see.

“And it was so hard. She still appeared unhappy sometimes, and I worked to get her out of those moods, and each time it was more and more of an effort.”

“And did she try to make you happy?” Draco probed softly. The Veela in the back of his head hummed and sent another daydream to him. It had had its fill of sex with Harry for now; it wanted to do something for its mate, content him and make him completely and totally its. Draco rolled again, until he lay flat on his back and Harry directly on his chest, cocooned within the shell of his wings.

“Of course she did,” Harry said, with a trace of his old defiance. “But it didn’t really work.”

“Why not?” Draco turned his head and nipped and lipped at Harry’s ear, pleased when his breaths grew shallow with arousal.

“Because—Malfoy, please don’t—“

Draco took his teeth away, but only so he could stroke Harry’s cheek, now resting only a few inches from his. “Harry,” he said in a tone that he filled with honey and sugar, “tell me why. Why weren’t you happy, in a beautiful place with your gorgeous wife?” It took an effort, but for the sake of seduction he kept his jealousy out of his tone.

“Because I used to know why I loved her, and now the reasons have gone away.”

Draco restricted his surprise to a simple tightening of his arms. So it wasn’t what he had hoped to hear—or what the Veela in him had hoped to hear—that Harry missed him constantly and didn’t want his wife any more, but it was still more revealing than he would have expected. Of course, with the Veela’s wings around him, Harry really had no secrets any more. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“I just—“ Harry’s eyelids drifted up and down. “Our relationship was based on honesty. She was the only one who knew everything about me, and she confessed dreams she had that her family never would have understood.” A faint smile took over his face. “I’m surprised she had any of those left after a childhood with six nosey brothers, but she did.”

Swallowing his annoyance, Draco moved his hand up and down Harry’s shoulder in an effort to make him go on.

“And our relationship was based on really great sex,” Harry whispered. “And on the friendship we had when we were kids, and the fact that she knew why I tried to save people’s lives, and I knew why she did what she did.

“And now the honesty causes all sorts of problems. She knows exactly what I do with you, but she hates it—“

“She knows it _exactly_?” Draco wouldn’t have thought Harry had the courage, or the vocabulary, to confess what happened during their trysts to his wife in any kind of detail. “How is that?”

“I volunteered to put the memories in a Pensieve for her after each time,” Harry whispered. “I’ll have to do it again after this. She’ll be angrier than ever.” Abruptly, he stirred in Draco’s embrace, as if the thought of future anxiety had finally disturbed his present contentment. “I should go—“

“No, you shouldn’t,” Draco said, tightening his hold, and the wings made the words a command. Harry relaxed again, his eyes opening, soft and distant with peace. Draco bit back a groan. There was nothing about Harry that didn’t arouse him, it seemed, and his spent cock just had to give a twitch. Luckily, Harry didn’t appear to notice. “And you shouldn’t have to put the memories in a Pensieve for her, either.”

His mind was racing now. If Weasley had seen what happened between them, she might understand, far sooner than Harry would, exactly how much of a rival she had for Harry’s affections.

“And we haven’t had sex since her accident,” Harry rambled on, dropping his head so that Draco’s hair hid his face. “I know we can’t, I know _why_ we can’t, but that takes away another thing that kept us together. And the memories of Hogwarts seem so long ago, now. I keep thinking how much more I shared with Ron and Hermione. And I haven’t even told Ginny about their _deaths_.” His tone shifted into a whinge, abruptly. “Why did you make me tell you? Now all I can think about it, _when_ I think about it, is that you know and she doesn’t!” He gave another half-hearted push at Draco’s wings.

“Shh, Harry,” Draco said, and pressed down until Harry’s little struggles had ceased and he lay still. “I want you to tell me more.”

“You always want that, you bloody wanker,” Harry muttered, and then sighed. “And now she also doesn’t understand why I do what I do anymore. Or I think so, anyway. She wanted to know why marital fidelity was less important to me than saving your life.”

Draco snarled under his breath. He felt a moment’s vindictive glee that the _true_ answer as to why Harry hated people dying so much was in a memory he’d never shared with Weasley, but the hatred came back a moment later.

Ginny Weasley was hurting his mate.

Draco badly wanted to strangle her for it. Or pull back his wings and release the torrent of blazing white magic that he knew would have come for Pansy, that day in March he and Harry had awakened together.

“You should be happy,” he whispered into Harry’s ear. “What is the attempt to be honest with her, to be her husband, costing you but shame and suffering? And her, too,” he added, because he could be generous when he stood a good chance of cutting Weasley out of Harry’s life because of it. “The Veela chose you for a reason, Harry. And you’re the choice I want.” His arms and his wings tightened, and he found his mouth again flooded with the temptation to bite. He managed to hold back, but the hand he moved down Harry’s chest shook. “Come on. Stop holding back when you’re with me. If she’s so upset that you give me what I need and deny your own pleasure, then let’s give her something to be _really_ upset about.”

Harry grunted and then moaned. His eyes slowly opened, no longer distant but bright with passion. Draco leaned nearer, shifting Harry a bit so he could kiss him.

From a long distance down inside himself, it seemed, Harry found the strength to move.

Abruptly he was free of Draco’s wings, and all the former tension came flooding back in a moment. Harry shook his head, and raked his fingers through his hair, sending it standing up in the most improbable places. Then he clenched his hands into fists, took a long, deep breath, and began to walk from the gazebo.

Draco sat up. “Harry,” he said, in a tone of quiet command that no one could have ignored.

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” Harry said, without turning his head. His voice was laced with bitterness, and it didn’t matter how much Draco told himself that bitterness was mostly for Ginny; it still hurt. “That was a selfish, cowardly trick to pull. And button up your robes, you look ridiculous with your cock hanging out.”

A few steps more, and he Disapparated with a sharp crack.

Draco sat back, his breathing fast and shallow as he did up his pants and then his robes, and reached into a pocket to pull his wand and cast a cleaning charm. All the while, his eyes lingered on the place Harry had been as if riveted there.

Maybe he should take this as a warning and back down.

But he wasn’t going to.

Harry was putting up a bitter fight—bitterer than Draco thought the situation warranted, in truth. But that didn’t really matter. What _did_ was that each encounter increased his sense of Harry, told him what was needed in the next attempt to convince him to come closer—

And brought Harry closer to cracking.

Draco had a thin smile on his face as he stood.

No matter what Harry might think, the human body wasn’t designed to constantly build towards intimacy and then hold it off. Eventually surrendering to what they’d built between them was as natural as the Veela’s wish to please its mate. Sometime this evening, Draco hoped, Harry would remember that it was _Draco_ , not his wife, who had soothed and comforted him, and made him talk about what bothered him.

He might hate Draco for that, right now. But it was far easier to end by hating his wife. She was the one causing all the problems, after all.

*

Harry hated himself.

It was an hour before midnight now. He’d arrived home an hour past, to find that Ginny had already gone to bed.

And to find Pansy Malfoy sitting calmly at the dining room table, as if she thought that her natural place since Harry and Ginny had sat at _her_ table when they visited Malfoy Manor for the first time.

“Mrs. Malfoy,” Harry said, as formal as he could be when it came to the woman whose husband he’d just finished sucking off in the garden behind her house. He averted his eyes, because he suspected he could only glare right now. _I thought I was doing the right thing. How in the world did this get so fucked up?_

“Oh, we don’t have to be that formal, Harry, do we?” Pansy said, in a voice that reminded Harry strongly of Narcissa Malfoy’s. “After all, _I’ve_ had sex with Draco, and _you’ve_ had sex with Draco. That practically makes us comrades-in-arms.” She gave Harry a tiny smile that he knew held nothing of amusement in it.

“I didn’t—“ Harry said, and gave up. After all, Ginny didn’t believe him when he said he hadn’t had sex with Draco, either. He rubbed his face, wishing he could simply close his eyes and will the last five months to be a dream. “Was there something you wanted?”

“Yes.” Pansy came a step or two closer to him. “My husband back.”

Harry looked her carefully in the eye. He could see simmering fury behind her gaze, and it made him wince. She might not be _quite_ as dangerous as Bellatrix Lestrange—Bellatrix had been mad—but she might not be far from it, either. “I was under the impression that the agreement we made had to last until the end of the calendar year,” he said, his voice utterly neutral. “Has Malfoy lied about that?” He wouldn’t put it past the bloody bastard, after the attempt Malfoy had made to drug him with—whatever it was about the wings that Harry liked so much. Pheromones or something.

Pansy shook her head. “No. But he plans on making your arrangement permanent.”

“I am _not_ taking it up the arse!” Harry snapped. “If he told you that, he lied to _you_.”

Pansy smiled a bit. “I know you’re not, Potter,” she said, seeming to forget her own rule about formality. “You’re such a _noble_ Gryffindor I doubt you could keep that secret.” She leaned a bit closer. “But Draco already looks at me like I’m second-hand toy he bought, played with for three days, and tired of. It’s the look he gave the lovers he had before our marriage. He wants you now.”

“Shit,” Harry said wearily. “Look. I don’t plan on letting him have me—“

“You’ve underestimated how persuasive he can be when he wants something.” Pansy folded her arms. “And the Veela has unique ways to charm its mate. I’ve read about them.”

Harry could hardly deny that, not after what had happened in the garden. “So what do you want me to do about it?”

“Argue with him,” said Pansy calmly. “Make yourself as irritating as humanly possible. Make him eager to spend time around you _only_ to ease his sexual tension, and then even more eager to leave afterwards. You always could push his buttons in Hogwarts. I want to see you do it again.”

Harry frowned. “Most of the reasons we were rivals in Hogwarts don’t exist anymore.”

Pansy reached into her robe pocket and pulled out an envelope, which she put down in the middle of the table. Harry’s eyes tracked the movement unwillingly. The envelope was utterly smooth, unmarked and innocuous, on the outside, but he doubted the contents were anywhere near that.

“I’ve lived with Draco for years now,” Pansy said. “And I’ve lived with him before that, more intimately than you could. I know his faults, his weaknesses, the things he can’t _stand_ to have mentioned.” She nodded at the envelope. “That’s a list of all of them.”

 _Fuck_. Acid swirled in Harry’s throat. He shook his head. “I can’t just—“

“Oh?” Pansy’s eyebrows climbed, a bit. “Really, Potter. When you’re having sex with my husband and drawing his attention from me every day, and wronging your own wife in the process? You can’t do the smallest favor for me?” She pressed her hand to her breast. “Really, I’m so impressed with your heroics.”

Harry felt the urge to cry again, briefly. He was being ripped three different ways, and he didn’t know—

Except that he did. Two of those ways were pulling the same direction, after all. Ginny and Pansy both wanted their marriages intact. Draco was the only one trying to step beyond the boundaries, as Harry had already told him.

He picked up the envelope. “Fine.” He said it as curtly as he could, while his own flesh crawled and his conscience screamed at him.

“You won’t regret this, Potter,” Pansy said, and patted his arm. “Draco really _is_ not noble enough for the likes of you.” She paused a moment, giving him a long, slow look. “I don’t see how anyone could be, really. Or maybe it’s that I don’t see how anyone could put up with your self-righteousness. Hard to choose.”

“Get out,” Harry said.

Luckily, she took him seriously and did so.

Harry dropped the letter on the table as if it had stung him, and then went and took a long shower. The warm water failed to relax him, especially compared to the sensation of Draco’s wings around him, and it utterly failed to make him feel clean. That was when he leaned his forehead against the tile and decided he hated himself.

If Hermione was alive, maybe she could tell him a way out of this. If Ron was alive, maybe he could offer a strong shoulder, tell Harry he’d be there no matter what happened, and guide him out of this.

But there was only him now. And no matter which way he turned, what he did would be wrong.

He finally shut off the water and wandered back into the kitchen. It looked as though Ginny hadn’t sorted through the post that had come while they were away; it still lay in scattered piles where the owls had dropped it. Harry shrugged. He might as well tidy it, then put the memories of this evening into the Pensive and brace himself for Ginny’s anger in the morning. It wasn’t as though he could sleep.

He organized most of it quickly enough: the _Daily Prophet_ , letters from the Weasleys, the usual requests for autographs and interviews that he’d discard without a second glance, post relating to his job, and—

He paused as he reached the final envelope, one that must have come the day they left. _Potter_ was all it said on the outside.

Harry recognized the flowing, fluid script. He’d seen it before on ransom notes and the letters stalkers sent to their victims. The most elegant and effective handwriting charms produced it, disguising any attempt to trace the quill or hand that had penned the words back to their origin.

Frowning, he cast several detection charms on it, and found no hexes or poison. Nevertheless, he opened it carefully.

The letter was to the point, which Harry appreciated. At least it wasted no time on gameplaying or elaborate phrases that would disguise the reality they both knew lay beneath.

_Dear Mr. Potter:_

I am sorry to inform you that your recent exploits against the Carrows have deprived me of the most effective of my brewers. I gave you a month to release them, hoping against hope you would see sense and recognize that there is prey far more worthy of the Hermes Corps’s time and attention. I am sorry that did not come to pass, as I must now take action against you.

You may be interested to know that I am also a veteran of the wars against Voldemort—note that I do not hesitate to write his name—and a brewer; I developed the potion you have become so dogged in pursuing. I will never be a potions master, but I have a fair amount of skill.

Do not fuck with me, Mr. Potter. Your hero complex has led you into trouble this time. I will give you a few more days to consider your position, not that I truly expect you to back down.

I do differ from your previous enemies in one important respect. I want no one but you, Mr. Potter. Your friends and family are not in danger. You were the one who insisted on piling up the clues that led to the capture of my brewers, so you are the one I want.

Come June, the hunt begins in earnest.

Sincerely, a friend and admirer.

Harry lowered the letter to the tabletop and spent a long moment staring at the far wall. He knew what he should do in a situation like this. Kingsley took threatening letters to any of his Aurors seriously, and would immediately arrange protection for Harry.

But—

He was so sick of having no privacy. So tired. Malfoy knew about Ron and Hermione’s deaths, and Harry’s newest dirty little secret, that he couldn’t help getting aroused with him. Ginny knew everything about his encounters from the memories in the Pensieve.

Harry felt stretched, strained open, like an oyster stripped for its meat.

He wanted something that was just his. Something he could know about and no one else could, something he could smile about and have no one able to guess what the source of the smiles was.

This secret was dangerous. Everyone around him would tell him not to keep it, if they knew.

Malfoy, in particular, would be furious, Harry thought, remembering the git’s reaction to his untreated wounds.

But he’d kept dangerous secrets before, from hearing the basilisk’s voice in Hogwarts on up to the Horcruxes, and he was more than confident that he could handle anything this mysterious hunter brought against him. And this might be something to keep him sane and distract him from the maelstrom his personal life had become. In that way, it would benefit everybody.

Decision made, Harry slipped the letter into his pocket, and Summoned his Pensieve to him. He had already calmed down, he discovered, and tugged the memories out of his head with grim determination.

Maybe, once Ginny saw them and he told her how helpless Malfoy had made him feel, she would help him find a way out of this.

Together. They had to be together. Harry didn’t know any other way to live his life.


	10. June (Part One)

"Happy birthday, darling."

Draco looked into Pansy's eyes and smiled as she leaned over their shared bed to embrace him. "Thank you, dear."

He wondered for a moment if he would have seen the coldness in her eyes a year ago. Then he shook his head slightly. No, he would have seen it, but it would have meant something different, something that hadn't bothered him then. They couldn't muster love for each other, and rarely passion, but they could muster contentment. And if Pansy would maneuver around him to get what she wanted, at least Draco knew that, and could respond in the same fashion.

Now he knew how much more he could have, and the knowledge was forcing him further and further away from his wife.

"Is something wrong?" Pansy's voice had acquired a subtle edge.

"Of course not," said Draco, and sat up a bit. "What could be wrong on my birthday morning?"

On cue, the house-elf appeared with a breakfast on a tray: strawberries thick with chocolate, pancakes of a particularly delectable taste that they only prepared on Christmas, his birthday, and Pansy's, and one of their foods that was half-confection and half-bread. Draco didn't think it was called a dumpling, but that probably came closest to embodying its nature.

Draco smiled a bit. Breakfast in bed was a true luxury, since Pansy usually insisted on maintaining perfect manners at home even when they didn't have a guest. He did raise an eyebrow when Pansy arranged the tray on her own lap and picked up a fork, however.

"I'm going to feed you, darling," she said. "You'll agree to that, Draco?"

"Of course," said Draco, though he wondered why she _wanted_ to. Pansy wasn't much for nursing or any other activity that required her to tend to people. He leaned back on the pillows and opened his mouth, though. If she wanted to feed him, then he wouldn't deny her the opportunity.

He quickly found out why she'd wanted this. She touched his face constantly and softly in between handing him the bites on the fork, her fingers brushing against his nose and cheekbones. Whenever he met her eyes, she would smile, the secret, sexual, enticing smile that had once made Draco harder than he knew he could get.

It hadn't done that in months, though.

Draco only had to think about Harry for a moment to make his pants swell. He shifted, and Pansy glanced down, seeming to notice, though how she could have seen through the blankets was beyond him.

"You'd rather skip over the breakfast?" she asked, voice as amused and beckoning as her smile.

"After breakfast," Draco promised her, letting his own hand brush her wrist as she brought another bite of the dumpling-thing to his lips. Pansy showed her approval of that by following it with a kiss.

And he did try to make it work with her. But the only way he managed it was by thinking constantly of Harry, and spending a long time carefully crawling over her body, licking and kissing her, so she couldn't see his eyes.

They could still have sex, but the entire time, the Veela whinged in the back of his head and gave him distracting daydreams about the things he could be doing with Harry instead. Draco bit his lip savagely when he came, to keep from saying the wrong thing, and then bent down and kissed Pansy passionately when he was done.

Pansy let her hand rise and twine lazily in his hair. "I thought we would remain here for today," she said. "No practice. No dinner parties. Just speaking to each other, lying in bed beside each other, and eating in bed if we want it."

Draco pulled a bit away from her, and raised a smile. God knew he'd smiled under more trying circumstances during several parts of his life. "I notice there's no mention of wearing dress robes during that period, either. Daring, Pansy."

She laughed at him, face as open and soft as it ever got, and then leaned up for another kiss.

Draco permitted it, because they were still married and Pansy would have questions indeed if he suddenly stopped allowing it. But he had already made up his mind. He deserved something more than this for his twenty-fifth birthday, even if it couldn't happen _on_ his birthday. He would send a letter to Harry and demand a private meal together a few days hence.

He only had to mention it was for his birthday, and Harry would feel compelled to come, he knew. Gryffindors fell for sentimental nonsense like that all the time.

*

_Pound. Pound. Pound. Pound._

Harry felt sweat sheet down his face, but he didn't stop running. He was nearly in a trance state now, where the sound of his own feet both drove and lured him onwards. The pain in his side had retreated until it was no more troublesome than a small cut along his ribs. His shirt flapped around him, and the short Muggle trousers he wore provided just enough cover while not restricting him.

He had taken up running in the last few weeks, hoping that it would serve as a distraction from his worries over his personal life. It seemed to work so far. Its main attraction for him was precisely this trance state, in which he could stop thinking and just do, the way Quidditch had once been for him.

He hurtled along a street in a quiet wizarding neighborhood a half-mile away from Diagon Alley—a series of small houses, mostly of wood and ancient, weathered stone, with the larger buildings of Muggle London rising in the background. The June air clung stickily to him, not aided by the rain that had ended just a few hours ago and left puddles sparkling in every corner of the street, but that was another thing he could mostly ignore.

Vaguely, Harry recognized that he was nearing the end of the run. He didn't want to stop, but exhausting himself wasn't part of the plan, and Ginny would feel neglected if he were away from home for too long.

He grimaced to himself, and spun down an alley that led between this street and the next one, and ultimately back towards the Diagon shops. He didn't want to think about her, not yet.

He was just aware enough to realize that not wanting to think about his wife was a bad sign.

Harry grunted, trying to turn his thoughts in a more productive direction, and a bolt of red light exploded past him and made a small puff of dust rise from the stones of the alley.

Harry dropped into a roll before he realized what he was doing, Auror instincts flaring to life in his head like Muggle emergency lighting. He came back up into a crouch in the shelter of the opposite wall, wand in hand, eyes scanning the street.

The sudden cessation of the run struck him like another spell, and he hung his head for a moment, panting, exquisitely aware of every small pain in his sides and legs now, the frantic trembling of his muscles and the sharp smell of his sweat.

Another spell slanted down past him, a worrying green this time. Harry forced his instincts to shut up and listen to reason. He hadn't heard anyone speak the incantations, and it seemed odd they couldn't hit him.

And the spells had come from _above_.  
Harry looked up, focusing his eyes as hard as he could. Kingsley was forever telling his Aurors to see what was _there_ , not what they wanted to be there or thought should be there. If they looked, he insisted, they should be able to ignore illusions and see the reality.

What Harry viewed wasn't illusion, but he did see the slight patch of blurry air that marked a Disillusionment Charm, marked by odd, wild darting and wavering that he knew well. Someone rode a broom above him, and he wasn't exactly used to controlling its maneuvers. He'd probably counted on the shock of surprise and his own invisibility to overcome the disadvantage.

Harry aimed his wand carefully a little to the left of the blurry patch. He waited, and sure enough, the broom's next dart carried it to the left.

" _Reducto_!" Harry yelled, voice as firm as he could make it. He could have done it nonverbally, but his nonverbal spells had always been weaker than the normal ones with a few exceptions—such as the Shield Charm—and he didn't want to chance missing.

As it turned out, even as his own curse flew, one he didn't recognize came down from above, a wide, expanding ripple of pure white light. Harry hurled himself away from the wall and rolled across the middle of the alley, on the general principle that he didn't want to be under that light when it struck.

The light hit the wall across from him with a whirring sound like startled pigeons, and Harry heard a sharp crunching from the stones. He winced. He could only imagine what it would have done to his bones had he stayed in place.

At the same time, though, a voice cried out in pain from above, and Harry felt a moment's smugness.

He realized what this was now, of course. His mysterious "friend" had said that he would start hunting Harry in June. And so far he seemed to hold true to the terms he'd promised. He'd certainly attacked Harry a long way from family and friends.

Harry didn't intend to let the contest go on long. The spells they used would attract quick attention from first the wizards who lived nearby, and then from Aurors. And he wanted to keep this private, special, something just for him.

It had worked so far. He laughed, and that savagery he only felt when he was in imminent danger of losing his life reared up inside him, whispering restlessly, giving him suggestions for what he should do next. Harry imagined a particularly impressive result, and let his smile stretch further.

 

" _Aguamenti Incendio!_ " he called up at the figure, flicking his wand in a complicated movement not well-known outside the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. His mind fixed intently on the air around that blurry patch, to tell the spell where he wanted it to go.

A cascade of boiling water drenched the broom, and must have interrupted whatever spell his enemy planned to send after him, because the broom veered more sharply than before, and a series of startled obscenities drifted down towards Harry.

Harry laughed again, and this time couldn't seem to stop. God, it felt good to have something to _fight_ , to have the number of chances and choices restricted. This wasn't like the mess of his personal life, in which he only stumbled more and more the more he tried to do something. If something went wrong here, he would die. That was all there was to it.

The broom turned then and soared away. Harry stared after it regretfully, but decided that he had to leave. Their spells had been noticeable, and, on his part, loud. An Auror might be on the way from the Ministry even now.

He Apparated home from the alley as he lay, without trying to make it to Diagon. He ended up on the ground outside his house panting, weary, with a silly smile on his face.

He straightened up and used a few cleaning charms to repair the worst ravages of the sweat, as well as removing any dirt and dust he'd taken from rolling about in the alley. No need to tell Ginny what he'd been doing. Then he jogged forwards and opened the front door.

"Harry?" Ginny called sleepily from the bedroom. "Is that you?"

"Yeah," Harry called back, and stood where he was a moment, this time to bring his exhilaration under control. Bright, sweet joy surged through him, and the hurry of adrenaline and blood through his body only made it better. This felt—

Well, this felt like really great sex, was what it felt like.

Harry rolled his eyes, but retained his smile. So he would be without really great sex for a few months. That didn't matter, especially now that he had this, which could serve as a substitute.

"An owl came," Ginny murmured, and the blankets rustled with the sound of her turning over to go back to sleep. "Brought you a letter. I think it must be on the table, since it landed there." A lengthy yawn. Harry doubted she would rise for another few minutes, which gave him even more time to hide any evidence of what had happened in the alley this morning.

Harry tore the letter open eagerly, sure it was another taunting message from his enemy. His mood soured a bit when he recognized Malfoy's elegant hand on the parchment. At least he didn't waste time, any more than the enemy would have.

_June 6th, 2005_

_Harry:_

_Yesterday was my birthday. I had to spend it at home with my wife, of course, and I'm sure you can imagine how enjoyable that was to me. I deserve something more than that for a present._

_I want you to have lunch with me tomorrow, and spend at least a few hours in my presence. I'm sure that you can arrange something with your superiors. My coach permitted me an escape from practice, and I can assure you, everything you've heard about Branwen Gooseberry's sternness is true. I want to see you._

_Draco._

Harry rolled his eyes, and stood there for a moment, holding the letter in his hand and thinking.

Pansy's list of cruel things for him to do to Malfoy had included information on his dead parents, his failure at Hogwarts in their sixth year, a number of minor failures in Quidditch games that had haunted him over the years, and some sexual details that Harry would have been better off not knowing. Harry had glanced over them with a sick feeling. He had not seen, then, how he could keep his promise to Pansy. As much as he hated the web Malfoy was entangling him in, he didn't have the stomach for deliberate and sustained cruelty like that.

But the suggestion at the bottom of the list had intrigued Harry. It said that Malfoy hated nothing more than being ignored.

With a tight smile, Harry crumpled up the letter. He could always say, if Malfoy came looking, that the git hadn't bothered to send a place to meet him at, and that Harry had too much work to do. Of course, Malfoy had doubtless intended him to write back and ask about the place, which would constitute an acceptance of the invitation and let Malfoy trap him into the lunch.

Harry didn't want to be trapped. Not any more.

After a moment's careful thought, he dropped the letter straight into the dustbin. He wouldn't call Ginny's attention to it, but he also wouldn't incinerate it, which had been his immediate impulse. He hoped she would find it, however, and understand how little Malfoy mattered to him now.

And it didn't hurt much, if at all.

 _That's it, then_ , Harry thought in some wonder as he went in to shower. _The only reason I was so hesitant about brushing Malfoy off, before this, was that I thought it would hurt. And it might hurt him, but he's pushing the boundaries of our bargain, asking for things I never agreed to give him. And I can live with what pain it causes me._

*

Draco ground his teeth and paced back and forth in his long dining room. He'd waited all day yesterday for Harry's letter, and then come back to the Manor this afternoon, just in case the owl arrived this morning. But no owl had appeared. It was as though Harry had decided to—

 _Ignore_ him.

It was _infuriating_.

"Draco?" Pansy's voice held a very slight sound of surprise. "You've returned awfully early, darling. Did the practice go well enough to satisfy the bitch, for once?"

Draco turned around and forced himself to smile. Pansy did look lovely, her blonde hair done up on her head and her blue gown low around the shoulders and yet casual enough that she didn't seem overdressed. She stood in the doorway, a perfectly framed picture, and blinked at him.

She looked lovely if one wanted her.

Draco didn't. The Veela's daydreams were full of green eyes and black hair and a strong body arching in reluctant pleasure. And the daydreams had become part of Draco's consciousness now.

"No," he said, and came forwards to take her hand and kiss it, since he wouldn't get out of this one. "Branwen did say I could have this time for a lunch, when I told her about my birthday being two days ago." He rolled his eyes to indicate, he hoped, exasperation with his coach and not her. "I only have until three, of course, and then it's back to chasing the Snitch and hoping the others miraculously grow _skills_ sometime in the next half-day."

Pansy chuckled lowly and looked up at him from beneath her eyelashes. "Well. It _is_ only two days after your birthday."

Draco wanted to grind his teeth again. But he had to go to bed with her. Otherwise, he would have to admit that he'd invited Harry to a private lunch and hoped the idiot would respond to the invitation, and Pansy would score another point in their running argument. Draco still hoped to make life so uncomfortable for her that she would leave of her own free will, so he didn't have to take the first step.

"You're right, it is," he said, and found a smile for her.

Harry bloody Potter would just have to wait. Draco hoped his lunch was _burned_.

*

Harry uttered a patient sigh. "This would go more easily if you would just admit who your employer was."

Alecto Carrow, chained behind a table in front of him, glared at him as though her eyes alone could make him melt and run. Harry concealed a little snort. Better witches than her had tried. Bellatrix Lestrange's glare, in particular, was more practiced and polished than hers.

"Not talking?" Harry cocked his head. "I suppose I can't blame you. He must be angry with you." He kicked idly at the leg of the chair in which he sat, and took a risk. It would have been an even greater one, but he was alone in the interrogation room; the rest of the Hermes Corps were working with Richard Yaxley and Amycus, who seemed more likely to give them information. "He _did_ say he was upset at my costing him his best potions-brewers. He seems to have blamed me for that just like you blame me for the fall of the Dark Lord. I can't imagine why."

Alecto's head snapped up, and her breath came in a series of sharp gasps. Harry watched her through half-lidded eyes.

"You haven't heard from him," she said, her voice a hissing snarl like a cat's. "You're lying."

"Of course I could be lying," said Harry. "And I might be lying even without knowing it. I received a letter that mentioned you, but it had a handwriting charm on it. He _did_ mention having some trouble managing his anger where I was concerned, of course." He produced a thin smile. "And three days ago, when a spell like a white cocoon came out of the air and ground stone to dust behind me, that might not have been him. I've angered plenty of enemies over the years, after all."

Alecto stared at him, her chest heaving. Harry focused his eyes on her face and made himself see what was there. Not just anger, not just fear that Harry might learn her employer's name after all.

Desperation.

Harry's eyebrows rose a bit. He had a new conclusion to take to Kingsley. It might not be right, but it would at least be testable. It was possible that Alecto and the others were victims of an addictive potion. It would explain some of their sudden changes in mood and wild, uncontrolled magic over the last few months.

"That—" said Alecto, and then seemed to remember she was being questioned by an Auror, the enemy, and narrowed her eyes and her mouth, both.

"That was him, you mean?" Harry shrugged and leaned back in the chair. "I did think so. I have a lot of enemies, I understand, but it seemed a _bit_ too much of a coincidence for two of them to appear out of thin air at the same time."

"He'll kill you," Alecto whispered, her eyes taking on a strange, feverish shine that increased Harry's suspicions in favor of the potion. "You know nothing about what his spells are capable of. He'll kill you. If you survived one strike at you, it was a scouting mission, to watch your reflexes and your moves in battle. He can _project_ from that, guess what you'll do next when you face him again. He's not someone you'd think of at first, Potter." She gave a chattering laugh, as though there were a private joke in her words. "You'd think him a middling wizard. But he's not. He's stronger than he appears, stronger and luckier and more _wonderful_. You have no idea. You cannot know. You will never know in time."

Harry half-closed his eyes. He could think of several people that might fit that definition for four Death Eaters, but the most likely was someone whom they had known _while_ they were Death Eaters. And that might signal why the letter-writer hadn't been afraid to use Voldemort's name. He would have known that Voldemort was irrevocably dead, when the Dark Mark lost all its magical power.

Harry decided on another gamble. "And I suppose he has no reason to think I'm wonderful, carrying the snake and the skull as he does," he murmured.

Alecto jerked as if he'd punched her, this time, or tried to fondle her breasts. Then she leaned forwards in her chair, and her voice was quiet and deadly earnest. "When I get out of here, I will kill you. _He_ deserves the chance to do it, but if you are not his prey before I leave, you are mine."

Harry gave her a lazy smile and stood. "The only way you'll ever leave here is if you tell me something about him."

Alecto showed him bared teeth and flared nostrils.

"He might want you to tell me about him," Harry added thoughtfully, one hand on the doorframe. "If that's the only way he can have one of his most skilled potions-brewers return to his side, at least—and it is."

She said nothing. After a few more moments of waiting, Harry shrugged and exited the room. He had enough to tell Kingsley, with the scraps of information he'd picked up about her employer and the details on the addictive potion.

He met up with the rest of them, and gave his report to Kingsley. The tall Black Auror stood still for some moments, chewing over the gristle in Harry's words, and then nodded. "Did she seem personally threatening to you?" he demanded.

"No, sir." Harry knew better than to say yes, or to mention that Alecto wanted to kill him. All the Death Eaters wanted to kill the Boy-Who-Lived, anyway. And if he said yes, Kingsley would assign him guards, and they would get in the way when Harry tried to have a private duel with his enemy.

Kingsley nodded sharply, once. "File your reports, then," he said. "And, Potter, we don't need you the rest of the day. Go home once you've filed the paperwork."

Harry looked up in surprise, but Kingsley had already turned away and was striding down the hall. Hestia gave him a sympathetic look before she scrambled after Kingsley, but no answers.

"What—" Harry began, looking at Ralph.

"You _don't_ look well, Potter," Ralph said, and took his arm, steering him towards their office. "You're obviously not sleeping as well as usual, and you look like you wrestled with a bear when you come in here every morning." He lifted his eyebrows, waiting, expectant.

Harry felt a bit guilty for deceiving him, but there was no way that he could bring Ralph into the mess of his personal life. They were good partners, and fairly good friends, but Harry simply didn't trust him the way he had Ron and Hermione.

"It's been difficult, since Ginny's accident," was the only thing he was willing to say.

"Stop feeling guilty about that," Ralph said, striding ahead of him with a spring. "She's handled it well, I'm certain, because she's the gorgeous and resilient Mrs. Potter. And _you_ need to stop feeling guilty."

"I didn't cause the accident," Harry argued, glaring at Ralph's back and wondering why everyone around him seemed so sure they knew his feelings better than he knew them himself. "I never thought I did."

"But you can still walk," said Ralph, glancing over his shoulder. "She can't right now. That kind of thing is hard for people. My sister took a hex when she was in Hogwarts that deprived her of her eyesight for a year. Sometimes she hated me for being able to see. It's natural, but you have far too much of a martyr complex, Harry. You take that kind of thing to heart, and now it's affecting your work performance."

"I do not have a martyr complex," Harry muttered half-heartedly, but he followed Ralph down to their office without saying anything further. The report wouldn't take long to file—he only had a few incidental observations about Alecto to add to what they already knew—and then he could go home to Ginny. He had to admit the extra free time would be welcome.

But then he saw Malfoy leaning against the doorway of his office. He swung his head around when he heard their footsteps, and his eyes were fierce and hawk-like. At once he stood and stalked towards Harry.

"Oh, for God's sake," Harry groaned, and fought the temptation to drop his head into his hands.

He saw Ralph frowning when he looked up, glancing back and forth between him and Malfoy. "Problem?" he murmured. "You want me to get him out of here?"

Harry shook his head wearily. "A problem of sorts, but not one I can put off much longer," he said, waving one hand. "You go ahead. I'll speak with him out here, and hope that whatever he wants doesn't take long."

Ralph moved off, but glanced over his shoulder several times, and left the office door open when he went inside. Malfoy, bearing down on Harry like a storm in full flight, didn't appear to notice.

"Malfoy," Harry acknowledged, and leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms casually. He refused to back down or show any other sign of how tired he felt, and how little he wanted to talk to Malfoy just then. He wouldn't let the bastard scare him.

"Harry," Malfoy hissed, almost into his ear. Even as gooseflesh spread along his skin from the close contact, Harry was glad of it. At least they stood less chance of someone overhearing this conversation. "What the _fuck_ did you think you were doing, not accepting my invitation?"

Harry filled his mind with Ginny and Pansy. It really didn't matter how hurt Malfoy might feel over this, he reminded himself. He'd had more than anyone else out of this arrangement, and he didn't even seem to mind much of what the Veela drove him to anymore. Well, Harry _did_ , and their wives deserved better than this. Their wives shouldn't have had to deal with this at all.

"I wonder what the fuck you thought you were doing, sending it," he retorted, in a cold, calm tone that took the edge off Malfoy's rage. He stepped away from Harry, his eyebrows rising and his eyes narrowing. "I'm not your toy, to be commanded to your side. I'm not your friend, to wish you happy birthday. I don't care what you want. This is supposed to be about _need_ and _survival_ , but since you think with your cock, I can see why that would have slipped your tiny little mind."

Malfoy breathed in silence for several moments, as though trying to figure out why Harry had turned on him like this. Harry forced himself not to change his posture or expression. It wasn't really difficult. He was so _tired_. The only thing that had made him happy in the past month was the revelation that he had an enemy out there who wanted to kill him. Malfoy could offer him nothing that didn't come with a heavy price tag. Harry was just as happy to avoid his arms and his bed.

Finally, Malfoy shook his head and said, "This makes no sense, Harry. We are closer than we were. You can't deny that."

"You always wanted to believe that." Harry yawned in his face. "And there's a large distance between liking and pity, Malfoy."

 _That_ made the bastard jerk. Harry told himself he was happy with that. Really, he was. Of course, not ecstatically happy, but that was just something he would have to forget about feeling until the year was over. He stayed where he was, and painted layer after layer of cool disdain over his face.

"It wasn't pity I felt when your cock hardened in my hand," Malfoy finally said.

"No, it was lust." Harry shrugged. "What can I say? Veela are attractive. But you're fooling yourself if you think it's more than that."

"The Veela _is_ me." Malfoy edged a step or two closer, the way Harry thought someone might approach a wild dragon. "You know that. But you didn't object when we had that marvelous Quidditch game in April, or when I healed you of your hurts last month. It was me you came and told the truth to, remember? Not your wife."

A bark exploded out of Harry's throat before he could stop it. After a moment, he realized he was laughing. He bent over, hiding his face against his shoulder, while Malfoy's silence hovered on the border between perplexed and enraged.

Harry finally straightened and shook his head. "Why would I have told Ginny things that could hurt her, when she's injured and someone I love?" he asked. And a taunt of his own occurred to him. "That's what you were, you know. A convenient dustbin for feelings I didn't want to carry around. That's not how I interact with Ginny. It's not how I interact with anyone I love. Sorry to say, you aren't in that category and never will be. You—" He paused a moment to survey Malfoy head to foot. " _You_ are a charity case."

Ah, there it went. Malfoy barely moved a muscle, but his body suddenly screamed fury.

"And do you want your charity case to die?"

"Hardly," Harry said. "When you _need_ me, Malfoy, send me a letter saying so. The same terms as before. We meet in a place I can Apparate from, I don't stay the night, I don't respond to you, and I leave as quickly as possible."

Abruptly, Malfoy bent over at the waist and laid his hand on his chest, as though he were having a heart attack. Harry restrained his immediate concerned motion. He thought of Ginny, and waited.

Finally, Malfoy straightened and gave a harsh laugh. "The Veela hates the very idea," he whispered. "The Veela wants to give something back to you, Harry, and hurts me when it thinks I won't give it. And it wants you to give yourself freely, and it hates that it can't have that, either."

His face held true pain. Harry felt his muscles coil, so tensely that a headache began to throb behind his eyes. He _hated_ the sight of someone in pain. Let it go on long enough, and Ron and Hermione's faces would float up in front of his eyes, along with the faces of victims in crimes that he'd failed to save.

It took an almighty effort not to move forwards and put his hand on Malfoy's cheek.

_But if I do that, it's not fair to Ginny. Or Pansy, who wants her husband back. She must care something about him, even if I—don't._

_I don't. I really don't. And this kind of thing will just make him think I do. Not to mention encouraging an affectionate bond that will make it harder for us to go back to our separate lives in the end._

He asked calmly, "Will you die without those things?"

Malfoy clenched his jaw, as if he had just truly realized that he would get no sympathy from Harry. "No," he said. "Only suffer. And I thought you were here to prevent that, Potter."

Harry felt a rush of relief like cool rain when Malfoy called him by his last name. _Maybe he accepts it, too. After all, why in the world would he want to associate with someone who taunts and rejects him?_ "I am," he said. "As much as I can. But you know that a lunch together violates the rules of our agreement."

"The connection is growing stronger with the months," Malfoy retorted, and then forced himself upright with strength Harry would have said he didn't have. He took several long steps forwards, until they faced each other from a few inches away. Harry refused to look away, though Malfoy's eyes felt as hot as the touch of his skin. "That agreement doesn't suffice anymore."

Harry fought the temptation to close his eyes. _Shit._

"I won't come for you," he said in a heated whisper.

"You might have to, in a few months," Malfoy replied. He reached out and cupped Harry's jaw, stroking his thumb over his lips. His eyes were distant and calculating. Harry preferred that to soft and melting with warmth, but it did make him wonder what would happen next. "This month, I don't think it necessary. Come to the Manor's gardens at eight-o'clock at night on the twentieth. We'll do it then.

"For now, though—"

He waved his wand, cast a spell that probably disguised them from view, and then leaned in and kissed Harry.

It was a kiss unlike the others they'd shared. Then, Malfoy had been desperate to share something, or take something from Harry. This kiss had no purpose but seduction, creating a need and then promising the satiation of it if Harry would just let Malfoy in. His tongue darted and slid about, mimicking an action that made Harry begin to harden as he thought about it.

_No! Damn it!_

He raised his hand, intending to grab Malfoy's wrist and drag it away from his jaw, but Malfoy leaned in further, and the intensity of the kiss increased, though not the pace. Malfoy's tongue dragged slowly along his gums, along his teeth, along his own tongue, and a moan that Harry _entirely_ didn't want rose this time. He hardened further, and his own arousal ached in him as if it were a need, probably remembering that it had had only his own hand to occupy it since Ginny's accident.

He wanted Malfoy to smirk against his mouth, or laugh, or do something else that would show this was just a ploy to humiliate him. But Malfoy did nothing save kiss and kiss, now and then uttering moans of his own, and hungry little groans and growls. He pressed further and further in, arching his body as if to cover Harry from the sight of anyone else, keep him all to himself.

A surge of pure pleasure went through Harry at that. He'd always liked it when Ginny got possessive and jealous, though he thought she had cause to do it far less than she imagined she did. And a magical creature, which the Veela essentially was, becoming possessive of him—

_No!_

Finally, he had panicked strongly enough for his innate magic to react. An uncoordinated blast of it shoved Malfoy away from him. He reeled across the corridor and into the far wall, while Harry leaned against the wall behind him and tried frantically to recover the strength in his legs and the feeling in his mouth.

Malfoy stood up before he did. His voice came out deep and hoarse, sounding—Harry couldn't prevent the comparison from attacking his thoughts, though he tried—like Harry after he finished sucking Malfoy's cock last month. "You _want_ it. You do. You _want_ it so much."

Harry turned his eyes away from the other man's face. The throb traveling through his groin had become actively painful. He only had one choice, which would also hurt, but at this point he didn't care. He waved his wand and intoned a charm that he hadn't used since his last year at Hogwarts.

His erection subsided so quickly that he hissed. Then he rose and glared across the corridor at Malfoy.

The other wizard blinked, maybe because of the sheer hatred Harry knew shone in his eyes.

"And that's why you're a charity case, and not a friend," Harry said flatly. "You're a fucking _selfish bastard_ , Malfoy. What part of 'I have obligations to people other than you' don't you understand? I don't care what you want. I barely care what you need. The idea that there's more between us than that is laughable."

He flicked his wand one more time, this time soothing his swollen lips and removing the flush from his cheeks.

"I'll be there on the twentieth," he said.

"Will you really?" Malfoy murmured, and the husky tone of his voice was an invitation.

"With pleasure," Harry snapped. "Because when that's past, there are only six times that I ever need see you again, and then this accident that ruined my life is over and done with."

He stepped into the office. Ralph looked up at him, but seemed to sense that now was not the time to ask questions. Harry sat down and tore grimly into his report.

He was almost sorry that he Apparated home each time he left the Ministry, and therefore was unlikely to be attacked on the way. At the moment, he could use an excuse to discharge his adrenaline.

He fixed his mind somewhat desperately on Ginny. She was the reason he did all this. She was the reason he couldn't just tumble into bed with Malfoy and enjoy himself. She was his wife. He loved her.

Maybe, if he repeated that to himself often enough, it would serve as a bulwark against all kinds of temptation.


	11. June (Part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains dub-con between Draco and Pansy.

Draco didn't know how Harry had done it—he suspected it was with the careful use of calming charms and spells that numbed the nerves so as to be indifferent to any sensation, pleasure or pain—but he was entirely unmoved when he came to Draco on the twentieth.

They met in the gardens, as before. Draco had Transfigured the bench in the gazebo into a bed, this time. He meant for Harry to be comfortable and lie between his legs as he sucked Draco off, and after that Draco would unleash his Veela allure, pin Harry to the bed as he was writhing, and return the favor.

But Harry didn't blink when he saw the bed. He just nodded, climbed onto it, performed the charm that Vanished Draco's clothing, and then bent to his task without a taunt, without a greeting, without an expression of defiance.

Draco's back had arched and his mind had gone blank. The sensation only satisfied his physical needs, without doing a thing about the Veela's—or his—emotional ones, but he'd gone so long without even a kind word from his mate, let alone a touch, that for the moment, that was enough. He would have sworn that perhaps Harry had used spells on his mouth to increase its heat and wetness, too, but he knew that wasn't the case. His body had simply needed Harry with so much desperation that _anything_ felt good right about then. He came with a feeling that he had emptied everything, tears and anger and frustration and all, into the orgasm.

Harry stood up when he was done, cleaned come off his lips with a flick of his tongue, and performed the cleaning charms. Then he looked around for a moment and leaned off the bed.

Then Draco's robes landed on top of him, a gesture so casual that the Veela cried out in stunned pain, like a kicked dog.

A moment later, Harry had Apparated away.

Draco lay where he had been abandoned, and closed his eyes. The same crushing grip he'd first felt in the Ministry had hold of his heart, manipulating it, shredding it. He could feel the physical muscle laboring at exactly the same cadence as the emotional pain, and the fading of pleasure's aftershocks let him feel it all the more.

God, he wanted to _kill_ something.

Harry was a blind idiot to think their marriages, their lives, would ever be the same after this. Even if the stupid bargain they had made had somehow endured, Draco would have dreamt of the heat of Harry's mouth and hand for the rest of his life, and wondered if it was only the Veela that made sex with Harry so much better than sex with Pansy. Eventually, Draco would probably have given in and pursued Harry so that he could find out.

The little Weasley's pull over Harry was too weak. Draco knew sexual compatibility wasn't _everything_ , but it was a lot, and Harry's erection against his hip the other day, from just a kiss—in which he hadn't used a bit of Veela allure, thank you very much—was even more. He was fighting a futile battle. He _had_ to give in. The Veela's longing for him would die. Draco's wouldn't.

_Why is he fighting so much?_

Draco went still suddenly, and frowned at the canopy of the bed. It _did_ seem odd, that Harry had turned so suddenly cruel and callous. It wasn't _like_ him at all. He had been open and compassionate until April, even after the little Weasley had made that rule he couldn't give himself to Draco. Was it really only the holiday that had changed him? Or the trick Draco had used on him to make him confess his fear and unhappiness? Harry could hold grudges, yes, but avoiding Draco would have made more sense than outright cruelty.

Someone moved at the edge of his peripheral vision.

Draco rolled his head, hoping against hope it was Harry come back, but Pansy stepped out of the darkness instead, and stood looking down at him in the bed. Her left hand held her wand, as expected. Draco thought she would make some comment about his state of undress, or the still large pool of semen splashed on his belly.

She coughed and made a little gesture with her wand towards her right hand. Draco followed the motion.

She held a camera in it.

Draco snapped his gaze to her, furious. Pansy smiled a bit and sat down on the far edge of the bed, the one Harry had occupied. She didn't seem to care how near her hand, even her robe, came to the mess. She just watched him with bright, slightly mocking eyes.

 _It wasn't Harry's idea to be that cruel_ , Draco thought.

The Veela uttered its raptor screech at the thought of someone actively interfering, trying to keep it from its mate. With a heavy effort and a visualization of the bare stone room, Draco kept it from transforming him.

"What do you want?" he asked in a level voice.

Pansy fluttered her eyelashes, but Draco wouldn't be fooled again. She was no more innocent than a succubus was. "Only what every wife wants," she said. "The love and loyalty of my husband."

"The first was never yours," Draco said, in as distant a tone as he could manage while revelation and fury ate him alive. He could feel it as actual fire in his belly, building up in his flanks like the heat Harry had delivered from his orgasm in May. His shoulder blades quivered with the need to grow wings. He knew that if he did, when he lifted them again, the white-blue energy that had gathered under them in March would rise and devour Pansy. "As for the second, you think moving this obviously is the way to get it?"

Pansy gave him a slow, mischievous smile, which suited a girl much younger than she was. "I've already moved subtly, and shown you my disapproval, and it didn't really matter." She rolled a shoulder. "And I know that you're thinking of taking and destroying the camera, Draco. It won't matter. It really won't matter. I have pictures from the last few months, too. And the nights that I wasn't here, or that you thought I wasn't—" Her smile flashed with venomous sweetness, and Draco felt a stab of hatred deeper and stronger than any he'd felt in seven years. "The house-elves obliged me."

Draco spent another moment considering her in silence. He wanted to say the house-elves would never have turned against the master of Malfoy Manor that way, but he knew better. Pansy's status as his wife gave her a certain amount of power over them. If he hadn't specifically forbidden something, and she commanded them to it, then they would oblige her.

He could command them never to do this again. But that would not stop Pansy from publishing the photographs of him and Harry she already had, or showing them around more discreetly but still to their ruin.

It was not so much his own ruin that Draco thought of, though part of him shuddered at the thought of building his name up _again_ after the Death Eater scandal had almost ruined it. He was thinking of Harry.

_He's wrong. I was never selfish enough not to care about him, at least not after March happened._

"You know that I'll die if I give you my full loyalty," he said carefully. He had to be so careful. He had to project the image of a trapped beast to Pansy, showing her that he was desperate and angry and longing to get the photographs away from her. If he showed too much fear, though, she wouldn't believe it, and if he showed too much anger, she wouldn't accept the desperation, either. "Is that really what you want, for me to perish before the year's out?"

"No," said Pansy. "I only wish to have some say in how you arrange your trysts, Draco, the way any good wife would." She stroked his shoulder. Draco was glad that he had practiced the exercises to control the Veela, then, because it shrieked and screamed in his head in revulsion. It didn't like anyone save its mate touching it, anyway, but Pansy was worse, a traitor. Draco mastered it, though, and kept lying there with a calm expression. "You're to meet on the twentieth of each month, just as you did this time. Only and ever here. You'll inform me beforehand. I'll be watching from the shadows, though I quite understand if you never want me to bring a camera again."

She smiled. Draco kept down the effort to strangle her by sheer force of will.

"Potter will finish his business with you and leave." She arched an eyebrow. "The example he set tonight is quite instructive, and one you'll follow from now on. Should the beast inside you absolutely _require_ it, then you can pleasure Potter as well. The exchange should never take more than five minutes either way. Men are randy creatures, aren't they, darling?"

Draco just tilted his head, seeking to make her go on. Visions of bloody death flashed across his mind, but they'd done the same thing when he trained with some of the Death Eaters. He'd kept them from noticing it, and he could do the same thing with Pansy now. At least his life wasn't in danger this time.

"And then you'll come with me, and we'll make love, so that you'll know whom you belong to." Pansy extended one hand and wriggled the fingers insistently. "In fact, we'll try that part of it right now. _Do_ come with me, Draco. And remember that I'll know if you intend me harm."

She might think that, but it wasn't true.

Draco put the Veela away, in the back of his mind. Its screaming had calmed in the last few minutes. Perhaps it had seen his own daydreams, and realized he was thinking of ways to punish Pansy. At least it curled up and left him alone, so that he could do his own human job of acting.

He cleaned himself, and took Pansy up to their shared bedroom. He stripped her, murmuring endearments into her ears. He laid her on the bed and began slowly to worship her, his lips marking her skin the way they had when they made love on his birthday.

It wouldn't last. Come his next birthday, he would be doing this to Harry.

As always, the thought of Harry shot his arousal higher, and he sat back so Pansy could see his cock swelling between his legs.

"I don't know that I believe that's for me," she murmured.

Draco climbed back up the bed to her and set about, very coldly and deliberately behind his lover's mask, bringing her to such heights of pleasure as she had never felt. When he thought it safe, he let a little touch of Veela allure leak through here and there, though it made the Veela whinge weakly in the back of his head. It wanted to save its allure for its mate.

All the time plotting her murder, he made love to her delicately, gently, tenderly, with such techniques that she writhed beneath him, incoherent with desire, by the time he entered her.

Draco kept his thrusts at a leisurely pace. Since Harry had taken the edge off for him, it was no effort to do so.

He made sure she came twice before he did. He gazed at her, memorizing the pleasure-flush of her cheeks, the way her hair sprawled about her on the pillow. He wanted to remember what she looked like, wanted to remember it deeply and dearly, and cradle and treasure the memory in the back of his head.

She would suffer.

And he knew how she would by the time he finally succumbed to his orgasm, and then to sleep beside her, cradling her as though she was indeed his mate. His dreams burned in pleasant ways, full of vengeance sometimes, and of a far different, sweeter-smelling body lying beside his at other times.

*

Harry had had a wonderful evening.

There was, after all, something that made him happy: the company of the Weasleys. Harry still found it hard to face Molly and Arthur, knowing he'd killed one of their children, but when they invited him and Ginny over for a dinner to celebrate the twins opening their first shop in Hogsmeade, it would have been even harder to resist. So he and Ginny, still walking carefully without the aid of her crutches, went to the Burrow for dinner.

The twins were there, and so was Angelina Johnson, who had recently started dating Fred. Bill and Charlie remained abroad, but Fleur had come in for a visit, along with her five-year-old daughter, Roxane, petted and the treasure of the entire family, but too shy to be spoiled. Percy was also missing; his reconciliation with his family was still partial and painful.

But nine people, counting Roxane, was more than enough to make the table feel crowded and the house dense and warm. Harry laughed at some of the twins' genuinely funny stories, and Ginny did the same thing, for once without a trace of bitterness in the sound. Roxane was passed from adult to adult, her feet rarely touching the floor. She was fond of Harry, but her means of showing affection was mostly to cling to him in silence, burying her head in his shoulder. Harry felt he was healing as he held her. There was something different about holding a child.

Once he looked up across Roxane's head and saw Ginny watching him with a steady expression. Harry smiled hesitantly. He couldn't make out anything behind her eyes. He hoped she was thinking of the children they might have someday.

 _That we will have someday_ , he decided firmly, and handed Roxane on to Angelina.

Molly and Arthur were solicitous to Ginny, willing to listen to Harry's talk of Ministry business, and always conscious of where their granddaughter was at any given moment. Sometimes, listening to them talk to each other, practically finishing each other's sentences the way Fred and George did, and watching them exchange secret smiles, Harry felt he _might_ be able to tell them he had killed Ron, after all, and that they would weep, but still accept him.

He did not feel like testing it, of course.

When he and Ginny stood to leave, Molly dragged her daughter aside for motherly advice about not pushing herself too hard while recovering. Harry, standing and watching them with a faint smile, was more than a little surprised when Fleur took him aside in turn.

Years had only turned her more beautiful, and stately, so that she carried her long pale hair like a crown. She had also mostly lost her French accent, though it hovered around a few of her words. "Ah, 'arry," she said. "You will forgive me, yes? I noticed that you 'ad a scent of the Veela on you."

Harry could feel his ears heating up. He hoped desperately that anyone watching would just mistake it for the embarrassment most men felt when talking to the beautiful Veela woman. "Yes," he admitted. "I—that is to say—" He reminded himself that he couldn't really deny it, that his stammering only made the matter seem more serious than it was, and that if anyone would understand this madness that had taken over his life, Fleur would. "An old acquaintance of mine had his Veela heritage pushed to the forefront of his life by a magical accident last year," he admitted grudgingly. "It turned out I'm his mate. We've found a solution," he added quickly, seeing Fleur's eyebrows fly up. "I only have sexual contact with him once a month, and that's enough to content his Veela. And it should fade away at the end of this year."

Fleur stared at him for a moment, then turned to look at Ginny. "It is 'ard on her," she murmured.

"It is." Harry looked back at his wife, who was listening patiently to her mother. God, she was beautiful, enough to make the breath catch in his throat. Fleur and Malfoy both had that distant kind of cold, hard attraction, like a snowy mountain, but Ginny was as lovely as fire was. "But she agreed, like the rest of us did. It's—hard. But it's working. It's just a few more times."

Fleur made a low, thoughtful sound. Then she said, "Forgive me again, but—you speak of the Veela as if eet were an animal inside this— _acquaintance_ —of yours. You know that is not true, yes?"

"It's not precisely true," Harry said, shrugging. "I know that. But he can control it like a part of himself."

Fleur sighed. "Over time, the Veela blends with the wizard," she said. "We 'ave seen eet many times, because many of those awakened late in life come to us for 'elp. So the Veela wants you, but over time, the wizard will want you, too."

"He can't have me." Harry shifted his shoulders. "I've taken steps to discourage his interest in me."

"I can only 'ope for you," Fleur said seriously. "This is a dangerous situation, very delicate. The Veela 'ave their mates for a reason, yes? To content them, but also to content the mate. They will do anything to make their mates 'appy."

"I'm happy with Ginny."

Fleur only looked at him with pity, kissed his cheek, and then turned away to catch up Roxane, who was saying, "Mummy, mummy," over and over in a soft voice.

Harry shook his head, and turned to take Ginny's arm. She looked up at him with the same steady expression she had used during dinner, but leaned against him willingly so that he could carry her through the Floo.

They had barely arrived home, though, when she stepped away. Harry shut the Floo connection behind him and faced her, not sure what she wanted. His heart was pounding in his ears with a muffled knocking.

"It's over," Ginny said.

Harry felt as if a giant had punched him. He tried to muster some words from his throat, some saliva in his mouth, but a dry croak came out.

Ginny didn't seem to notice. She was looking down. One hand ran over and over the mantle above the fireplace.

"I looked at Mum and Dad tonight," she said into the silence, "and then I listened to Fleur talking about Bill. Those are—that's the kind of marriage I want, Harry. A strong one. A solid one. One nothing can tear apart." She suddenly let out a harsh, quivering breath, which was the only sign Harry had of how close to tears this conversation had already carried her. "One where one partner would never consider cheating on another."

Harry opened his mouth to answer as he always did, that Malfoy's mortal danger hadn't left him a choice, and then closed his mouth again. He had had a choice. He had even told Ginny that he would rather go to Azkaban for conspiracy to murder Malfoy than make her unhappy.

He'd made his choice, and he had to live with the consequences. He'd done the wrong thing, even though he had thought it was the right thing. He cast his own eyes down and waited.

"I deserve more than this half-existence you've inflicted on me in the last six months," Ginny said quietly. "I deserve more than to be cheated on, slept around on. I deserve more than a husband who will—commit adultery. And I also deserve more than a husband who keeps giving pieces of himself away to other people."

Harry could just see her hands twisting furiously together in the corner of his vision.

"This is so hard," Ginny murmured. "I do love you, Harry. You're an easy man to love.

"I don't know if you're an easy man to continue to love.

"You're so righteous. Sometimes it's self-righteousness. You do the right thing, and I love that about you, but it's at _such_ a cost. You've been good, in the past, about making sure that only you pay for it, but now it's costing me. And I just—I don't know. Either you're too good for me, or I deserve something more than this, even with all your sacrifice. I deserve more."

Harry nodded, still not looking up.

"None of this," Ginny said, coming close to him and whispering into his ear, which made him start, "disturbs me as much as what I saw you doing with Malfoy. I think I could forgive the cheating. What is it but giving each other a little physical release? And if you'd remained distant from him and treated him with the same contempt as you did at first, I could have borne it.

"But you got closer and closer to him. You gave him pieces of yourself, and not just to bandage his wounds, but to keep. He brings a passion leaping out of you that I can't. You—you provide the memories in the Pensieve, but you don't experience them from the outside, so I don't think you've really seen the expression on his face when he holds you, kisses you. He's falling in love with you, Harry. Maybe he's already there." She hesitated a moment more, than added, "And from the outside, it looks awfully like you're falling in love with him."

That, at least, Harry could answer.

"I'm not," he said quietly, studying the floor. "In fact, Pansy asked me to keep as much of myself back as I could. She doesn't want to lose her husband, either. I taunted him and made him suffer as much as I could bear to."

"Really?" Ginny's voice held a lilt of surprise.

Harry's heart did leap, then.

"It's not enough," Ginny said after a pensive silence. "Not right now, at least. But—I suppose it couldn't hurt to give you a few more months. Six more months, Harry." She stepped away from him, and he finally looked up at her.

Her eyes were sad and soft, but determined. "If you still love me in six months—if you're not in love with him—then come to me, and we'll take up where we left off."

Harry nodded, the hope high in his throat, keeping him silent. It wasn't much, but it was something.

He helped her pack up in silence, and listened to her low murmured stream of instructions about sending on her post and when he should come to visit her. She would stay at the Burrow, of course. It was already arranged with Molly and Arthur.

She kissed him once, and then she stepped through the fire, as steadily as if she had never crashed a broom, and was gone.

Harry leaned his forehead against the mantle, his hands clenched around the sides of his head and his eyes tightly shut. His happy mood of the earlier evening had vanished completely, but something better had taken its place: determination stronger and fiercer than Harry had felt when he'd hunted the Horcruxes.

He fixed an image of Ginny in his mind, set it to burn there like a candle.

That was the woman he loved. That was what he should aspire towards. And he would. It didn't matter what measures he had to take along the way.

Malfoy could fall in love with him all he liked.

Harry was not going to fall in love back.


	12. July (Part One)

“God, Harry, that’s hard.” For a moment, Ralph’s hand gripped his shoulder almost painfully, and then he shook him once and pulled away. “Is there—is there anything that you need to talk about? If you need to talk to a friend, you know I’m available, right?”

Harry forced himself to smile. He felt weary almost beyond bearing; he’d been tired since Ginny left, as if, without her presence in the same bed, his body couldn’t rest. But he could smile for Ralph, who had borne the news of Ginny’s leaving him without immediately assuming it was Harry’s fault, as much as he adored Ginny. “No. Just—not right now. The circumstances are complicated.” He struggled to hold back a laugh when Ralph nodded seriously. _More complicated than you can possibly imagine right now_. “Maybe in a little while, I’ll want to talk about it.”

Ralph actually reached out and patted his hand. “Sure, Harry. Do you think you ought to stay and work today?”

“Yes,” Harry said firmly. He hadn’t told Ralph about Ginny leaving for three days, and he’d avoided work in the meantime. His desk was piled with reports, files, and news about what their informants thought were possible Death Eater movements. “I need to do this, Ralph. I can’t stop living my life just because she’s gone for right now.” _And not because some Veela’s chasing me, either._

“All right,” said Ralph. He gave Harry a faint smile and tapped him on the shoulder with a closed fist. “Still the best in the Aurors, aren’t we?”

“I’d like to see those idiots in the Zeus Corps touch us,” said Harry, which made Ralph laugh and sent him back to his desk to work on his own reports.

Harry faced the mess with a determined expression. It had still taken him three days, as strongly as he felt about Ginny, to decide that he could make conversation that didn’t revolve around her.

But he would have to. He needed to show her that he was capable of standing up for their marriage, fighting for her, and that would best be answered with a demonstration of strength. If he simply collapsed when she left, what would she think? Probably that he was too weak to resist any invitation from Malfoy, that was what.

If any invitation did come from Malfoy, of course, Harry didn’t plan on replying to it. He would wait for an owl from Ginny telling him when she felt ready to communicate with him. That was where his primary loyalty lay, had to lie, and he had forgotten it too long in sympathy for Malfoy. Even when he’d yelled at the bastard for being selfish, he’d felt bad about it.

_Not any more._

He dragged a report towards him and began to read it, correcting slight mistakes in the spelling as he went.

*

Draco regarded the owl from Theo with a small smile. He’d written to his friend asking for help with Pansy. He hadn’t made the situation that specific, of course; Theo didn’t know how his wife had betrayed him, and Draco planned to keep it that way. But he could brew potions that Draco couldn’t manage without his own lab, and he owed him several favors.

“Who is that from?” asked Pansy sweetly from across the table. She wore a silver necklace that shone against the pale skin of her throat and her colorless, low-cut gown. She put her cup of tea on the table and smiled at him.

“From Theo,” said Draco, and snorted with the casual contempt he’d planned as he ripped the envelope open and just barely caught the vial of green potion that tumbled out. He wagged it at Pansy while looking at the letter. “Another damn strength potion. He always wants me to test them for him, so he can find out how they affect a Quidditch player’s stamina. He hasn’t yet learned I have no wish to help him in his illegal little sideline.” _Not least because the Ministry’s not as stupid as Theo thinks they are, and they’ll find out who’s supplying the potions to the middlemen sooner or later_. Draco never used plans so easily found out anymore.

“Oh.” Pansy lost interest—Theo had sent potions like this before—and returned to her breakfast and the _Daily Prophet_. Draco heard her chuckling maliciously over something, probably Celestina Warbeck’s latest scandal. He told himself he didn’t care, and paid closer attention to Theo’s letter. It was more interesting than he had expected, since it included a second paragraph.

_July 4th_

_Draco:_

_Here’s a certain potion I think will be useful to you. Please use it as soon as possible; I need to have data on my efforts ready for my superiors no later than a week from now._

_I know you won’t tell me why you’re so damn interested in Potter lately, but you might want to know I’ve heard (from Ministry gossip) that his wife’s separated from him. Not divorced yet, but they’re living apart from each other, and Potter has said they’ve had problems. If you are interested in him_ that _way, you’ll never have a better chance to ask him for it._

_Theo._

Draco blinked several times. He couldn’t imagine the little Weasley leaving Harry, but then, six months ago, he could never have imagined that matters would come to this pass between him and Harry, either, or between him and Pansy. Perhaps it was best to accept that certain things happened and take advantage of them, rather than constantly questioning them.

The Veela in the back of his head flooded his mind with daydreams like bubbles, and then abruptly Draco had the strangest sensation—as if he’d overused certain muscles in practice and they had begun to spasm. Unconnected thoughts and magic jolted and shuddered in his body, and then broke apart from him, whirling out like tendrils. But even though Draco kept his eyes open, he couldn’t see them. He slumped against the table with a loud sigh.

Pansy looked up at once, of course. “Darling? What’s wrong?”

“The Veela did—something,” Draco said shortly, too shocked to hide the truth. His hands flexed up and down against the table, and he shivered again and again. He did have enough presence of mind to crumple up Theo’s letter and move it into an inner pocket of his robes before his wife could reach him. She ran tender hands up and down his arms, staring into his eyes.

Draco let her. He had not the slightest idea what had happened himself, so he had no reason to hide it from her. After several moments, she sat back, frowning.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t go to practice today,” she said.

Though that handed Draco the perfect opportunity to use the potion, since he knew Pansy wanted to shop for a new set of dress robes today, he shook his head adamantly and sat up. She would think it strange if he didn’t resist. “I have to,” he said. “Branwen’s already tired of excusing me from practice for Veela-related sickness, especially since I have no explanation she accepts. She won’t—“

“Hush, Draco,” Pansy said, and put a hand over his mouth with a wifely little smile. Draco wondered idly how many people watching the scene from outside would be fooled. No one who was a Slytherin, he decided. Pansy had given up her claim to that title by moving too quickly, too openly, too stupidly, with the pictures she’d taken. And now she seemed to think that he’d listen to her and obey her in all matters, since he’d been forced to wait to act on this one.

Of course, that wasn’t entirely her fault. Draco had fostered the impression as much as he could in the last fortnight. But that still didn’t excuse her _falling_ for it.

“I’ll stop in at the field and tell Branwen that you’re sick myself.” She kissed his temple. “Stop worrying. You stay in bed and let the house-elves tend to you.”

Draco kept up a brave front for a moment, glaring at her as if to say that she couldn’t make him stay off the Quidditch Pitch. Then he abruptly crumpled and dropped his head to his arms with a little sigh.

“All right,” he said. “Just—just don’t contact Harry, please?”

That was a large part of his new façade. Pansy knew as well as he did that a Veela could be controlled by a threat to its mate. Draco pleaded for Harry and not himself, and that pleased Pansy, was more believable, and increased her amusement, that he could not be as proud as he had before.

“If you’re good, I’ll have no reason to,” she said, and swept his cheek with one more kiss before she called a house-elf to care for him. Draco went, his head drooping, his throat voicing pathetic whimpers for the benefit of everyone, and crawled into bed. The Veela in the back of his head went on singing, but the strange expansion of his magic, whatever it was, _had_ drained him. It wasn’t entirely pretense that made his eyelids droop, and he released a deep sigh.

“Sleep well, darling,” Pansy said, and left.

Draco stayed in bed, half-dozing, for a good hour. She had done that, sometimes, circled back to see if he really left the Manor for the Quidditch Pitch or to shop. Draco had built up her trust by always doing as he said he would—which was dictated, now, by what she thought he should. This morning, though, was the one time he most couldn’t risk her sudden return.

She didn’t come.

Draco stood up and stretched. Then he called a house-elf, and the same one who had put him to bed earlier appeared, bowing and scraping.

“I want a bowl of soup from the kitchen,” Draco told it. He took out the vial of green potion. “And you need to add a drop of this to every single piece of food in the kitchen which will go into our meals for the next two weeks. Do you understand?”

“Begging Master Draco’s pardon,” the house-elf said, trembling as it gripped its ears, “but what is in this bottle?” It regarded the vial with a mixture of wonder and distrust.

“A spice,” Draco said firmly. “I was sick today, you realize that?”

The elf nodded so strongly that Draco feared for the safety of its protruding eyes.

“And Mistress Pansy might become sick, too. But this spice will prevent that.” Draco handed the vial to the elf. “So you must add it to _every_ bit of food, do you understand? For a fortnight.” He had no fear that the elf would have trouble with that part of the instructions. They were experts at making limited supplies stretch to fit the needs of more people than poor wizards like the Weasleys could imagine. “And you must not tell Mistress Pansy about this. Not you or any of the others. Do you understand?” He used the tone his father had used when he most wanted to be obeyed.

“Yes, Master Malfoy,” said the elf, cowed, and took the potion away.

Draco smiled slightly when that was done. He had asked Theo for a potion that had absolutely no effect on a man, but which would make a woman slightly more suggestible—a variant of a potion once used when it was feared that a prospective wife wouldn’t agree to an arranged marriage. The potion also had contraceptive properties, so that the husband could be sure his wife would bring no lover’s child to his bed.

The last thing Draco wanted was for Pansy to try and trap him in this marriage with an heir.

After he ate his soup, he went about ordering books on Veela, from shops that he could be sure were discreet and did not gossip about their clients’ purchases. He really should have done this long ago, but other than reading a few books the magical theorists who examined him sent—which were mostly about their various speculations on why the potions accident might have brought his Veela traits forwards—he hadn’t wanted to do the research. Now, he did. That expanding, stretching, reaching motion he’d suffered this morning had to have an explanation, and the Veela had been so strong in his head at the moment Draco also thought it must have something to do with it.

There was no crisis or accident in the magical world so rare that only one person had suffered it—with the possible exception of Harry and his resisting the Killing Curse from the Dark Lord’s wand. Draco meant to find out, now, about other people who had become Veela long after puberty.

When those owls were sent off, and he’d responded to Theo as well, he retreated to bed and took a moment to absorb the emotional implications of the news that the little Weasley had fled, leaving Harry alone.

The Veela in the back of his head let out a hungry snarl.

Draco had to do the same thing. His plan to escape Pansy was gathering strength, and though it might take months, he would be free of her. There was nothing to say that he couldn’t chase Harry in the meantime, though.

He _wanted_ him. He wanted to give to him, too: gifts that would help Harry instead of hurting him, gifts that would make him _want_ to be around Draco, gifts that would answer the accusation of selfishness he’d used against Draco last month. They could not spend _all_ their time in bed, after all, and he wanted to make this a bond that would last through more than sex.

Theo’s letter had said that Harry and his little Weasley were separated, not divorced. There was still the chance that she would try to win him back, or that Harry, since he was so intent on not falling in love with someone who would be better for him, might wait for her.

Draco thought he had at least until the end of the year, however, since their original bargain would force Harry to be around him for that long.

He folded his arms behind his head and lay back with a little smile as he heard Pansy begin shuffling through the house. _I will enchant one person legitimately, another against her will. I wonder which will be more fun?_

*

Harry sighed and arched his back. Working at his desk at home should have been more comfortable than working in his office, but it wasn’t.

He _missed_ Ginny.

He had never noticed how much of his life she filled up until now. She sighed softly as she watched the fire. She turned pages in her books—and she had read more often since her accident. She required his help, at least in the last few months, for extra blankets, food, and stabilizing her crutches. Now and then she asked him random questions about house-elves, about Muggles, about the paperwork at the Ministry, which Harry thought had a common ground in her trying to decide on something to do that wouldn’t require flying. He had rushed to answer them, and since they hadn’t talked about their strained marriage at the same time, those moments had been perhaps their happiest since March.

_Since March, and Draco bloody Malfoy bringing you off._

Harry took off his glasses and rubbed his hand across his face. He wouldn’t think about the prat until Malfoy actually owled him. He was trying to think about his own life and Ginny. Malfoy had already taken up enough of his time and attention.

He pushed the glasses onto his face just as something white lit up the window next to the desk with a blinding explosion. Harry went backwards and joined his chair on the floor, too startled to do anything else. Then he rolled and reached for his wand.

The hiss of extreme, contained magical energy filled the room. Harry, his wand drawn, arched his neck to look up.

A ball of lightning hovered over his chest, strands of fire crackling out of the sides. Harry shivered, even though the air admitted by the broken window was muggy and hot. He recognized raw magical power, the kind usually tamed and confined in spells. If it touched him, he would be less than ashes. He tried to dig his elbows into the carpet, then wondered if he should keep still and not provoke the ball into moving.

It darted downwards, making the decision for him.

Harry hurled himself to the side, his eyes crossing with pain as he caught his elbow on the desk. The hissing built to a central point, and then simply ended. Harry smelled singed carpet, and when he looked, saw a large portion of nothing where the floor right next to the desk had been. As much as it looked like anything, the nothingness looked like a patch of dark air, shifting back and forth restlessly, a point of magical weakness in the house’s wards.

Harry climbed to his feet, licking blood from his lips—he must have bitten them and didn’t remember it—and faced the ball of magical energy. It swayed towards him again. Harry flinched in spite of himself.

There was no doubt his mysterious enemy had sent the thing, and he must be _extremely_ powerful to hold so much magic in abeyance like this. Wild power wanted to strike and dissipate into various magical effects. To contain it so that it would destroy only what he wished it to destroy…

Well, Harry didn’t have power like that, and he was currently the strongest wizard at the Ministry.

He knew only one technique to get rid of this much magical energy, and if it worked, it would hurt him and destroy a good portion of his house. It also stood a chance of killing him. But he had no choice, unless he wanted to stand still and admire the lightning ball until his enemy chose to annihilate him.

Harry braced himself against the pain, reminded himself that the good side of this much adrenaline was that he didn’t have to worry about his personal problems, and said, in a voice that did not shake, “ _Accio_ wild magic!”

The ball flew at him, towards his empty hand. But Harry had tossed his wand into his left hand, so it wasn’t empty anymore.

The white lightning met the end of his holly wand, and traveled up the phoenix feather core straight into Harry’s skin and body.

He had done this in small amounts during Auror training, and had braced himself as best as he could to absorb it. But those smaller amounts of wild magic had carried with them a correspondingly smaller amount of pain. Harry fell to the ground, screaming as he hadn’t done since he killed Voldemort.

His own skin turned transparent in front of his eyes, an envelope of air around a fragile network of crystal bones, shimmering with bucking energy that sought a way out of him, no matter which way it had to go. Then he remembered another lesson and forced his eyes closed. If they had remained open, the magic would have leaped out of them, and he would have been blinded.

As it was, it leaped out his hands, his feet, his mouth, and his ears instead. Harry shuddered, his screaming reduced to a croak, and wondered if it had burned his wand to ash. He heard something explode in the distance, but he couldn’t care. He couldn’t move. His own magic felt taken up, turned inside out, and shaken violently until he could no more have done a spell than flown without a broom.

Slowly, slowly, he turned himself onto his elbows, hissing—the bones felt new and bruised—and surveyed the damage. The desk lay in splinters next to the far wall, under the window the lightning ball had destroyed, and of course the paperwork he’d tried to finish had been incinerated. Large points of magical nothingness occupied sections in the floor, and the walls were seamed like old trees that had survived forest fires. The doors to the loo and their bedroom were entirely gone, either burned or smashed apart into tiny particles. The stink of crisped blankets filled Harry’s nose.

He glanced down at his own hands, and winced. More burns. He stood with some difficulty and stumbled into the loo. Luckily, part of the mirror had survived, though the rest of it bent glassy wings and lunged against the restraint. Harry could see enormous black rings of stinging flesh around his mouth and ears. When he pulled off his robes, more burns mottled his arms and legs.

Now he had a problem, because he couldn’t go to a hospital without news of a magical attack on _Harry Potter_ spreading into the _Daily Prophet_ within a few hours. And then Kingsley would demand to know what had happened, and Harry would have to confess that he had expected an attack—though certainly nothing like the devastating ferocity this one had had—and he would have guards assigned to him day and night as well as a likely suspension for not reporting that his life was in danger.

He would have to do what he could with healing spells, cold water, and glamours. The burns didn’t look severe, at least; his home had taken most of the damage.

He also couldn’t stay here. Fortunately, he still owned Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, though he almost never made use of it. He could go there, behind the strong, ancient wards, and if someone asked him why he’d left his house, it would be easy enough to explain that it had felt too lonely without Ginny to continue living in.

He gathered up what he’d need for the next few days, using his wand cautiously at first. But it hadn’t burned, and the phoenix feather core had absorbed enough magic to be veritably humming with it; his belongings jumped into his trunk at the _Pack!_ spell, and the glamours that he cast over his face and limbs felt almost solid. When he commanded his trunk to float behind him, it bounced off the walls like a puppy before assuming the right position.

Harry shook his head as he stepped out the front door and cast a sharp glance around. No sign of his enemy, but then, he’d expected that.

He did have a smile on his face. Yes, this was dangerous. Yes, both Ginny and Malfoy would tell him that he was being a reckless idiot and he should report the attacks to Kingsley at once, no matter what might happen as a result.

But on the other hand, he felt most alive when he was most about to die. He _needed_ this. At least it kept his mind off wallowing in grief over missing Ginny—and off certain other things he didn’t want to think about.

One more glance to scan for threats, and he vanished into the Apparition.

*

Draco had spent most of the morning reading _Veela Courtship_. Branwen had canceled practice unexpectedly when her niece went into labor, and Pansy had been sated with the fucking Draco gave her when he returned to the Manor. That gave him time to read the first of the books he’d ordered, and he had to admit, he’d never known Veela were such a fascinating subject.

The page in front of him, for example, explained far too much about the last few difficult months. Draco shook his head and read it again.

_RELUCTANT COURTSHIPS_

_For some Veela, the taking of their mates—which cements the sexual bond and eases the unhappiness of the baser instincts, so that a deeper relationship has time to take root—cannot be accomplished at once. Cases of this have occurred when the mates were Muggle females in past centuries, whose men often kept them astonishingly ignorant and even frightened of sex. (And since many Muggle societies have spent their existence in denial that a sexual relationship between two women is possible, the complications of female Veela paired with these mates become even more delicate). The mate may also be the victim of past sexual trauma, or attached to another._

_Any Veela needs sexual contact with its mate to survive, but in cases such as the above, they will be willing to wait. With shy virgins, the contact may need to be no deeper than intimate kisses. With non-virgin mates, however, the Veela generally demands more._

_The Veela interprets these barriers in different ways, and reacts to them differently. Fear is generally allayed with allure—which may also be used on non-mates, to make them do what the Veela wants—_

Draco smirked, and cast a sideways glance at Pansy.

_—and the touch of the wings, which brings about a gentle trance in which the mate relaxes, trusts the Veela, and is much more easily aroused. In both states, sexual pleasure is much enhanced for both partners, which deepens the claim on the mate and, in turn, helps quiet the Veela’s fears that a reluctant mate may run._

_Perhaps the most interesting situations involve barriers that disappear, such as timid mates who gradually become educated and trust the Veela not to hurt them, or attached mates whose spouses die or leave them. When the Veela senses the disappearance of the barrier, it at once extends its magic in what is called by the rather grandiose name of the Transformation, but in essence is a simple sending of pheromones._

_The pheromones initiate changes in both mate and Veela, preparing them to accept greater roles in each other’s lives. The Veela is enabled to think of other things beyond sex, to value its mate more, and to achieve greater desirability and beauty in the mate’s eyes, thus beginning the true phase of courtship. Its partner, in the meantime, finds himself or herself thinking more of the Veela, growing more easily irritable when out of its presence, and, if a wizard or witch, gaining better control of their magic, though no greater raw strength._

_Both mates will require as much physical contact as possible, in particular sleeping next to each other, a sign of ultimate trust. They can survive without this, but insomnia, nightmares, and increased irritability for both partners will result. They also find the touch of other people actively revolting, in preparation for the final bond that makes any other partner incapable of rousing attraction in them._

_Reluctant courtships must still be carefully handled, even at this late stage, but the Transformation does make things a great deal easier._

Draco shut the book and smiled at it. Then he leaned his head back against the pillows, closed his eyes, and exulted, silently.

_The little Weasley caused this by leaving Harry. She’ll have her freedom from unhappiness, but at the cost of her husband._

_Harry needs this. He might be prone to resist just because it’s not something he chose, but we have to_ live _with this. Nothing can change it. It’s not something we chose, but it’s better to live with it than resist it when resistance will only hurt us. I might have started to think of him less selfishly only because of the Transformation, but the Veela and I are the same person now._

This explains why I felt as though ants were crawling over my skin when I touched Pansy, too. Well, if my plan goes well enough from this point forwards, she’ll ask for less and less sex.

As if she had heard the thought, Pansy’s eyes fluttered open, and she rolled over to sit up.

Draco turned, fixed her with a dazzling smile, and hit her with his Veela allure. His lip curled as he did—he didn’t want to do it; this was supposed to be saved for his mate—but he knew the effect would be incredible, given the suggestion potion in her food and the small doses of allure he’d been adding to their general interaction for weeks now.

Her mouth dropped open, and her eyes glazed. “Draco?” she whispered. “It’s as if—you have a crown of light around you.” She reached out, and Draco graciously bent down and let her run her fingers through his hair, even though that seemed to leave a scum of grease and dirt behind.

“When did you become so beautiful?” she asked him.

“When I fell in love,” said Draco blandly, and kissed her hand.

She would assume he meant one thing when he meant another, of course. That was not his fault. A great many things that he would do from now on were not his fault.


	13. July (Part Two)

“Are you sure nothing’s wrong, Harry?” Ralph trailed him as Harry left Kingsley’s office for their own. His hand reached out and brushed against Harry’s shoulder.

The sensation was disgusting. Harry jumped, shivered, and yanked himself violently away, spinning around. Ralph held up his hands, his gaze steady and concerned.

“You just yelled at Kingsley,” he said. “You don’t sleep, from the way you stamp around here snarling at everyone. And now this. This is more than losing Ginny, I know it is. Am I your friend, or aren’t I?”

Harry closed his eyes for a moment. The skin around his mouth and ears pulled at him with sharp, bright sparks of pain; the glamours hid the burn damage from the wild magic, but Harry hadn’t been able to correct all of it. He felt his frustration course through him like dammed fire. What he wouldn’t give for his enemy to appear in front of him, here and now, so that he could use his magic and give the frustration an outlet!

But he was in the Ministry, not in an alley, or in his destroyed house. He breathed shallowly and recalled his attention to the present. He had to deal with the consequences of his own actions. He’d been good at that for the years he was married to Ginny; the war had taught him responsibility. Surely the lesson hadn’t faded away overnight because she was gone?

_If it weren’t for damn Malfoy—_

Harry shoved the thought away, violently enough that he would have hurt anyone using Legilimency on him. He had tried to avoid thinking about Malfoy, even though the bastard crept up on him in his head all the time. Ginny was the important one. He had to show her that he could bear up while she was gone, yes. He had to be a tower of strength, not a cringing weakling.

He looked at Ralph again, and gave him a smile that he knew was strained. “I would tell you,” he said. “But it’s not just my secret. It’s—well, Ginny’s, and another person’s, too.”

Ralph stared at him, and then his gaze sharpened and he said, “Harry. You’re telling me—you cheated on Ginny?”

 _Too close, too close to the truth!_ Harry would have told him, if only to clear himself of suspicion in his friend’s eyes, but he couldn’t be sure what Ralph thought about Malfoy. He might keep the secret. On the other hand, he might spread rumors of the Veela accident all over the Ministry.

“Of course not,” he said, forcing a laugh. “Don’t be silly. It’s just a complicated situation, that’s all.” He turned away. “Now, if Kingsley wasn’t pleased I didn’t have my report done, just imagine what he’ll say when he sees that I’m delaying you from completing _yours_ , too. I—“

“We will not go back to that office,” Ralph said, voice low and precise, “until you tell me exactly what you did to Ginny.”

Harry felt his temper rise, so suddenly and completely that his vision drowned in red. The burns on his arms and legs, which were healing even more slowly than the ones around his ears and mouth, seemed to add their residual heat to his anger. He only wanted Ralph to stop speaking to him and leave him alone. God damn it, why was this so difficult? Why did others keep trying to interfere?

“This secret doesn’t belong to you,” he said, trying to warn Ralph off one more time. “I’m your friend and I don’t want to hurt you, but I haven’t been sleeping well or—or doing other things well, you know that. Don’t press me so far that I lose control of my magic. Please.”

Ralph said nothing for a long time. Later, Harry wondered what would have happened if they’d been left to their own devices, and he was half-sorry that he never got a chance to find out.

More relieved, though, especially when the near soundless motions of an owl’s wings broke their standoff. Harry glanced up, and then moved forwards with a sharp pace when he recognized the black eagle-owl carrying a letter no doubt intended for him.

“Thank you,” he muttered in high disgust as the owl landed on his shoulder. The bird ignored him, other than to put out its leg so that he could take the envelope. Harry did so, and then tried to shrug the owl off. It dug its talons in, just on the verge of cutting the skin, to indicate that it expected him to read the letter and provide it with a reply to carry back.

“Who is that letter from?” Ralph asked, in a voice of considerable danger.

“From someone involved in the secret, and who would kill me if he knew I’d told you,” Harry snarled, and then began trotting stiffly down the hall, trying not to jostle the owl into scratching him more than it already was. He needed to find a private place to read this letter, so that he could burn it—as he was certain he would need to—without anyone worrying about the danger of fire.

Ralph came up and kept pace with him, though. _As persistent as Ron_ , Harry thought in despair, _and just at the wrong time._

“Has it occurred to you,” his partner asked, “that I want to help you, not just blame you? That I’m your friend, and if you’re in danger from this secret, whatever it is, I think I should know?”

Harry had to stop and close his eyes. He ran one trembling hand over his forehead, and wondered if he was going to weep. Lack of sleep didn’t normally affect him like this, but _this_ was lack of sleep for five nights running, accompanied by nightmares when he did rest. The nightmares seemed to consist of visions of himself walking across an immense, barren gray plain, alone for the rest of his life—or perhaps forever, the dreams couldn’t decide.

And now, there was an offer of help.

“I really can’t tell you yet,” he said quietly. “I meant it when I said it just wasn’t my secret. I’ll talk to—to the other people involved, and see if it’s all right for me to talk to you.” He lifted his head and did his best to smile at Ralph, who now looked alarmed. “And since I have to wait to communicate with Ginny until she sends me an owl, that could be a long time.”

Ralph studied him with anxious eyes. Then he said, “But you’ll get help from them? If they’re the only ones who can know this secret, then they—they _have_ to know what it’s costing you to keep it, Harry. Promise me that you’ll talk to them, and get help.”

Harry felt a curl of bitter laughter work its way up his throat. _Everyone conspires to force me back into Malfoy’s bed. Except Pansy, of course, and she’s a doubtful ally at best._

“I’ll talk to them,” he said, because he could tell Ralph wouldn’t let him go until he did.

“That’s the best I can do, then,” said Ralph, and clasped Harry’s shoulder hard for a moment, the way he had when he first heard the news about Ginny’s departure. “Take care of yourself, Potter. You’re an idiot, but it would be a nuisance having to train a new partner now.”

Harry gripped the hand back, in acknowledgment, and finally left, in search of that private room. The owl rode along with him, wings spreading now and then in pursuit of balance.

One of the small interrogation rooms stood empty, and Harry slipped into it and magically locked the door. Most of the time, use of these rooms wasn’t scheduled—Aurors with prisoners to be questioned could return at any moment—so hopefully anyone who knocked would test the door, decide the locking spell was in place for a reason, and search for the next available one.

The owl took off the moment he shut the door, and flew across the room to sit on the sill of the enchanted window. Harry took the seat in front of the table and tore open Malfoy’s letter.

Something shining and heavy fell to the floor. Harry bent over and picked it up with a grunt, then stared at it. It was a silver ring, heavy, with a faded inscription—just the kind of treasure he’d think a ponce like Malfoy would have. But wound securely around the ring, and kept in place with magic, was a curl of blond hair.

As soon as Harry settled the ring in his palm, warmth radiated outwards to his hand, and then traveled up his arm. The aching pain of his burns promptly diminished. Harry felt his muscles relax. If that feeling traveled all over his body, then he would probably fall asleep in seconds.

Harry dropped the ring on the table, ignoring his pain and exhaustion as they rushed back, and turned his attention to the letter.

_July 19th, 2005_

_My dearest Harry:_

_You will have undergone changes in the last few weeks, I know. Forgive me for waiting until now to send the letter that explains the changes, but I feared you would not believe me unless you had felt their effects for yourself._

_You will have trouble resting. Insomnia most of the time, nightmares when you can sleep. You don’t need to tell me what you dream about, for I know. A plain that looks like a volcano exploded on it, with only your own figure striding along for eternity, and a crushing feeling of loneliness._

Harry narrowed his eyes, wondering if the bastard had cast a spell that ensured he would have those kinds of dreams.

_That describes my own sleep patterns in these last few weeks. Your sleeplessness had increased in the last little while, you’ll find. Since your wife left, in fact. The Veela regarded her disappearance as the disappearance of a barrier keeping us apart, and it caused changes to happen, in both me and you, that should bring us closer now that there is no “legitimate” reason for us to stay apart._

_You’ll have lost control of your temper, on your side, but you’ll have greater control of your magic, so you probably haven’t hexed anyone because of the anger problem yet. You don’t like anyone else touching you. And thoughts of me will intrude all the time, even at the most inconvenient moments, when you want to concentrate on Auror business or your own problems. Am I right, Harry?_

Harry dropped the letter, and buried his head in his hands. It was throbbing. God, at times like these he wanted to go home, draw the blankets up, and lie there until sleep found him.

Except, of course, sleep wouldn’t find him this time, or not easily, because of what Malfoy’s Veela had done.

_Damn it, damn it, damn it! Why did it have to choose me to be its mate, out of all the persons who would have been thrilled and honored by Malfoy’s little attentions? I’m no prize for it._

After long moments of sitting like that, Harry sat up. Acting like this wouldn’t complete Malfoy’s letter, which still covered another page of parchment, nor write a reply to the owl, which had ruffled its wings and hooted menacingly.

_I’ve come up with a partial solution to the problem. This ring contains a curl of my hair. Wear it, and it will, technically, fulfill the condition that we should have contact now, just as the limited sexual contact we’ve had so far satisfies some of the Veela’s cravings, enough to be going on with. You can sleep. You’ll regain some of your control over your temper, although not all._

_Let the thoughts of me come, Harry. Please. Your mind needs them. None of the books I’ve read explains why very well, but they all agree that you do, just as I need to be able to give you more control over this strained and tentative relationship we have._

Harry narrowed his eyes again. _Since when does he let me have any control over anything?_

But the rest of the letter might be the only thing that could answer him, so he read on.

_I suppose you might think that the Veela should still see a barrier: Pansy’s marriage to me. However, that was never a barrier of love, and now she has turned against us both. She took photographs of our last several liaisons, and has hidden them in inaccessible places. She planned to release them if I didn’t do exactly as she demanded of me._

_Because of this, I trust her no longer, and I have used the Veela allure to manipulate her so that she will become no danger to us. But she is not completely under my spell—that will take another month as yet, I think—and so we still have to fulfill some of her conditions. Please come to the Manor’s gardens at eight-o’clock again tomorrow night, and this time, please let me reciprocate._

Harry snorted. “I don’t see that this gives me much control over the situation, Malfoy,” he said aloud. The owl ruffled its feathers and gave him a disgusted glance, then tucked its head under its wing.

_If you really don’t want to do this, then tell me as soon as you can, and I’ll use the allure to convince Pansy to delay our assignation a few days. If you don’t feel that you can stand my touch yet, then tell me that, too, and I’ll use the allure to spare you that, if I have to break her mind to do it._

Harry blinked.

_He—_

_He really is trying to defend me. And make the best of a rather bad situation, I suppose, given those photographs._

Harry had not thought Draco Malfoy capable of such a thing.

He set the letter down again, though he still hadn’t finished reading it, and massaged his forehead. The ring on the table whispered welcome and relief, but Harry couldn’t touch it yet. He probably would fall asleep and stay that way for hours, and he had to answer this.

He thought of saying something about how he didn’t want Malfoy to use Veela allure on Pansy, but then he thought of some of the tactics he had to use as an Auror—the only ways possible to protect and save lives, but which most of the wizarding community would have strongly condemned him for using. Could he really blame Malfoy for using the best weapon available to him?

Besides, if he _did_ want to spare Pansy’s sanity, he should try to attend the meeting tomorrow so Malfoy wouldn’t need to use the increased allure.

He looked at the last paragraph of the letter.

_Please, as well, send a curl of your hair back with your reply, so that I can twist it around a ring and use it to spare myself insomnia. If you don’t want to, I understand. With my Veela strength, and the distraction that tormenting Pansy provides, I can probably bear this better than you can._

_Yours from now on, as I hope I may come to call you mine,_

_Draco._

Harry licked his lips and sat back, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. He just—

He couldn’t throw a gesture like this back in Malfoy’s face. He wasn’t capable of it, no matter what it would mean to his relationship with Ginny.

Ralph’s words returned to him. He needed to talk to someone, and Malfoy was the only possible choice, at least until Ginny gave him permission to write to her. And could it—

Damn it.

He’d just thought _could it really hurt to let him touch me?_

Of course it could. Harry had discovered, this year, just how much things he had believed harmless could hurt. Nothing he did was right, and this was another step down the pathway of wrong.

But—

Not only couldn’t he throw Malfoy’s gesture back in his face, he couldn’t refuse to respond to the trust and courage implied here. Malfoy could have concealed anything in this letter from Harry, including his mental control of Pansy and why he hadn’t said anything about the symptoms of their mutual change for so long. And he hadn’t. He might still be lying, of course, but Harry thought the chance was small.

He used the _Diffindo_ spell to cut a lock of hair from his head, and sat down to write his reply.

*

Draco sniffed ecstatically at the envelope that contained his mate’s letter, and rubbed it against his cheek. Then he took out the curl of hair Harry had sent and wound it around his ear. He could feel his Veela practically purring as it took in the scent and nearness of its mate. He would sleep better tonight, he was sure of it.

Of course, before he could do that, he would have to make love to Pansy.

Draco rolled his eyes, but he was feeling more tolerant of the prospect than he had since she confronted him last month. It was only for a time, and he would be able to touch Harry tomorrow. The short letter said so.

He went cheerfully to find his wife, and sink her a bit further under the Veela enchantment.

*

Harry stepped uncertainly into the Manor’s gardens a few minutes before eight, and glanced around. “Malfoy?” Summer meant plenty of light here, still, but Harry didn’t like it that no one had emerged to greet him, not even a house-elf. “Are you here? Did something go wrong?” His hand tightened on his wand.

“Harry. Hello.”

Malfoy stepped out from under a tree to the side of the path and leaned against it for a moment, giving Harry a chance to look at him fully.

Desire hit Harry in a hot tide, with no time for him to prepare. Malfoy’s magic had increased—or his height had—or Harry’s sense of his presence had—or something. He could hear himself panting as if he’d run miles. He wanted so badly to touch Malfoy that tears sprang to his eyes.

He wanted to resist, he _did_ , but this was the first uncomplicated thing he’d felt since Ginny left him. He swallowed, and then saw that Malfoy had extended his hand to him.

“It’s all right,” Malfoy said softly. “Please, Harry, for once, just let yourself go. I’ll take care of you, I promise. No sniping against your wife, no derogatory comments, no selfish care for my own pleasure and my own pleasure only.” He smiled a bit. “You weren’t the only one the Transformation changed. I would have sent you the technical details about me, but I thought it was easier to let you see for yourself.”

Harry felt his eyelids droop. He could have blamed that on lack of sleep, since he’d really only had last night to rest well, but he knew it for what it was. Temptation tugged at him with thick reins. He _wanted_ to do this. He’d already said that he’d let Malfoy touch him. Would it really be such a bad thing to let Malfoy do it the way he wanted, since he’d given Harry so much choice in everything else?

_Wait. Did he give me much choice in everything else?_

He couldn’t remember. He was so aroused that the muscles in his groin hurt, and he might start whining soon. He swallowed several times and then moved forwards so that he was a few inches from Malfoy.

_I need this. For once, I just need to feel. And maybe this takes more courage than the other way around, and that’s a fit answer to the courage Malfoy had to feel to tell me the things in that letter._

“Yes,” he whispered, and clasped Draco’s hand.

*

The Veela filled Draco’s mind with a blaze of triumph—and then suddenly vanished. Draco didn’t think it had gone. Rather, it was part of him now, bathing him with extra warmth towards his mate and sharpening his instincts with extra instructions to make this experience as exciting for them both as possible.

Draco reached out, sliding their joined hands up to Harry’s face. God, that face showed so many marks of loneliness and hurt and depression. Draco kissed him carefully, and poured the Veela warmth into the kiss, so that Harry could feel what he meant to both of them, Veela and man.

Harry gasped, and then abruptly leaned inwards, deepening the kiss of his own free will for the first time. Draco cradled the back of his head, his ears filled with a thin warble of delight that the Veela would have uttered if its mouth weren’t occupied right now, and called his wings.

They drooped on his shoulders for just a moment before he swept them around Harry. Harry nearly went limp at their warmth against his skin, and shut his eyes. Draco waited. The kiss had broken off, but with his hands full of Harry’s hair and skin and neck, that didn’t matter for the moment.

When he looked up again, Draco felt a painful throb in his groin. God, those green eyes held the look of someone who was drowning in sensation and _liked_ it.

“God, yes, I like that,” Harry whispered, and kissed him again, roughly, urging Draco in the direction of the bed. Draco wondered if he had remembered the way to the gazebo from the other two times, or if he could feel it almost as a calling presence, a beacon, the way the Veela could.

They reached the bed at last, and sprawled on top of it. Draco, drawing his mouth free of the kiss and one hand free of Harry’s hair, used his wand to Vanish both their robes. Harry half-yowled when he felt his bare skin all over Draco’s, and Draco snarled, the Veela flexing in him like claws as he raked his way along Harry’s flanks and chest, down to his cock.

Pansy did watch them, but Draco had managed to persuade her it would be more exciting if she were behind a glamour and without the camera. After all, Draco was already a slave to her will, he was putting this display with Harry on just for her, so why did she need a camera? Her memory’s eye could contain it.

After some concentrated blasts of the allure, she had agreed. But she had bitten her lip before she did, and several times her eyes almost cleared. Draco didn’t have complete influence over her yet. He would have to wait some time before he asked her not to watch him and Harry, or to show him the hiding places of the photographs. He would not move too early, as overconfidence had prompted her to do. He could wait for his revenge, especially when it would embarrass her so badly.

He put the thoughts away from him then. Harry was here, so warm, so hard, and writhing on top of him for the first time in honest yearning.

And then he moaned, “ _Draco_.”

Draco’s snarl was deafening, and his wings locked so tightly around Harry’s shoulders that Pansy probably couldn’t see much of his naked form anyway.

*

Harry felt—strange. As if he had leaped over a cliff, and someone had cast a spell to give him a pair of temporary wings at the last minute. He couldn’t fly forever, and he didn’t know when he would crash.

But so long as he could fly, he felt fearless.

Consequences. He would worry about them later. He had _needed_ this, and he had resisted to the best of his ability, and it still hadn’t worked. If nature and the Veela and Draco and his own body and even Ginny, indirectly, wanted him to go through with this, then he would.

He shrieked as Draco’s hand closed on him, and for a moment he came close to rubbing himself off against Draco’s palm, but a part of him was determined to prove that this had been his own choice, that he hadn’t collapsed into it just because he couldn’t fight anymore. He shook his head and worked his way down Draco’s body, closing his mouth around his cock.

He’d done this twice before, but both times he had _wanted_ to be as perfunctory as possible, to show that he was doing this under protest. This time, he wanted to linger, to appreciate the human warmth and smell and taste of Draco in his mouth. He had enjoyed oral sex with Ginny because it had felt like he could _give_ something to her, something he couldn’t when he was too involved in his own pleasure. And Ginny appreciated it, no question.

But Draco went beyond appreciation. He tried to say Harry’s name, several times, as Harry swirled his tongue carefully up and down and avoided the jabbing strikes of Draco’s hips, but it was useless. Even his moans broke off into cries of abbreviated, helpless joy that had made Harry feel ashamed when he first heard them, but which he rather relished causing now.

Draco’s thrusts became sharper, shakier, harder to contain. Harry relaxed his throat as much as he could and swallowed twice in quick succession, using one hand to fondle behind Draco’s balls.

Draco came then, with a shout, and Harry swallowed for the first time. It still didn’t _taste_ very good, but the notion that he’d made Draco feel good outweighed that. He sat up, pleased with himself.

He had to grin. Draco lay with his head flung back on the pillows of the bed, his face flushed with passion as though from high wind. Harry didn’t mind if he needed some time to recover from an orgasm like that.

Then Draco’s eyes flared open.

Harry gulped. He’d seen passion and sexual hunger before, but nothing like this. Draco’s eyes signaled his very clear desire to _devour_.

Draco pounced.

*

So now Draco knew what Harry Potter was like when he _wanted_ to make love to the person in bed with him.

It wasn’t to be borne, the idea that the little Weasley had had this again and again, and the pleasure of returning the favor, and Draco had only had it once. It made a wild possessiveness well up in him. God, Harry was _his_ , and Draco would kill anyone who tried to take him away.

He wrestled Harry to the bed beneath him, wrapping his wings securely in place so that Harry moaned and melted and arched his neck and whispered his name and _Please_ over and over again. Draco licked his lips, to restrain the saliva dripping from them, and paused a moment to restrain the Veela’s aggression likewise. Otherwise, he really might spring from the bed and murder Pansy right now.

It had to have an outlet, though.

Draco bent his head and bit the side of Harry’s neck, hard. Harry gasped, but not in pain.

Draco blew his breath lightly over the bite as he pulled back, and it took on the silvery sheen of a claiming mark. _There_. It was in such a place that, given the shirts and robes Harry usually wore, most people wouldn’t even see it, but Draco would be able to track his mate through it, and tell at once if Harry was in trouble. He had to have something like that, to make the Veela think about having sex with its mate instead of tearing people apart.

_Now._

He pulled Harry upright, so that Harry sat with his back against Draco’s chest, and the wings flared around him, rising and falling, brushing Harry’s skin with flashes of that delicious heat and then reeling away again. He left plenty of room so that his hand could creep down and close around Harry’s cock. He was, of course, willing to return the favor and suck Harry off, but if he did that, his mouth would be occupied and he couldn’t say all the things he wanted to say.

“So beautiful,” he whispered. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are? Maybe you do, but when you see people staring at you, you just dismiss it as their staring at that stupid scar.” He ran his tongue around Harry’s ear and began to pull and stroke him, marveling at the weight, the hardness, the _strength_. “I’m glad you do. I can make you feel that you’re beautiful, and this way, I’m the only one who gets to see.”

Harry let his head loll back, utterly and completely relaxed, his eyes so far gone that Draco wasn’t sure what he saw. “Please, please, please,” he said. “Draco, I want this, I want you to say things like that to me, I—“ A flush that might have been embarrassment rose to his cheeks, but Draco thought it more likely to be arousal.

“Yes, yes,” he said, and dragged his hand through Harry’s hair, pausing here and there to yank, because he could. His hand sped up. “You _need_ this, you _deserve_ this, do you understand me, Harry? No one else could have done what you did, in the war and in your life and with this. You just face the difficulty and charge it. You take some convincing, sometimes, but you do it. So brave, so beautiful, so wonderful, so close to coming in my arms, aren’t you?”

Harry’s only answer was an incoherent moan and an oblivious stretch of his neck.

“Do it,” Draco growled. His voice didn’t sound human any more, but unlike the screech of the great bird that sometimes replaced his words, he could live with this. He had never wanted to fuck someone so much; it made what he’d once felt with Pansy laughably weak and unenthusiastic. “You have to, you want to, you need to, and I’m making you. No reason not to. You can’t stop, by now.” He purred the final words into Harry’s ear. Pansy and the little Weasley could both have been watching them by now, and he wouldn’t have been able to stop. “ _Come_ , now.”

Harry came.

Draco heard him uttering a stream of low, continuous whimpers as he did, though they were stifled, and Draco more felt than heard them, because he’d locked his teeth in the claiming mark again. He stroked up and down Harry’s side with his free hand while he used the other to feel the pulse of his mate’s orgasm.

The Veela in his head projected a daydream of a cat upside-down on its back near the fire, sated by play and food and warmth and petting in equal proportion, nearly dead of joy.

Draco had never been so happy in his life—and certainly he had never realized that making someone else happy would be the highlight of it.

He spelled Harry clean, then licked his claiming mark several times and wrapped his wings around him. “Go to sleep,” he said, just as he had the first time they shared a bed, the time he could barely remember, and Harry gave a little sigh, smiled at him, and went to sleep in less than a minute, obediently.

Draco stayed like that for as long as he could keep awake, his heart full of sunlight.

*

Harry bit his lip and eyed the package on the table in front of him anxiously.

He had avoided Draco—

Malfoy—

All right, _Draco_ , since the night they’d slept together. They didn’t need to meet again right now, of course, now that they each carried a curl of the other’s hair. They’d exchanged a few letters, in which Draco talked about ordinary subjects and never tried to press Harry to visit. He did close each letter with a reminder that he was Harry’s and hoped Harry would be his.

Harry hadn’t wanted to see him again. He had awakened in Draco’s arms knowing, intellectually, that this was a much worse betrayal of Ginny than anything he’d done so far.

The problem was that, emotionally, all he’d felt was a profound sense of relief. He’d needed that human contact, so badly he hadn’t known it until the moment was past.

But perhaps it need not happen again, so he had slipped away quietly while Draco still slept and tried to make new vows to himself.

Yet that wasn’t all of it. The major part was that Harry remembered the nuances of Draco’s voice and touch on that night, and he knew he had never been so powerfully wanted before.

It made him nervous. It made him feel like the target of a hunter in a way he never had even when Voldemort was stalking him.

And now Draco had sent him this package, along with a letter that explained he had sent it early in the morning so as to be the first to give Harry a gift on his birthday.

He certainly was that. No other owls had arrived yet. Harry took a deep breath and opened the package carefully. Draco, he was certain, had chosen the green and silver paper because he just couldn’t _help_ himself.

Inside lay a book, but a large one bound in soft leather, with no title. Wondering if it was about Veela, Harry flipped it open.

Inside were—photos. Harry stared at the first one, of a young girl waving madly at the camera, jumping up and down, and then tripping over her robes. She wore a Gryffindor scarf; the air must be cold, though the camera angle showed sunlight on grass and only a few dead leaves. Her smile was exhilarated, her hair bright red, her eyes the same green as his.

Underneath the picture was written, in neat letters, _Lily Evans, September 1970._

Harry wanted to cry.

He turned the page carefully, instead. The next photograph was a dark-haired boy clutching the corner of his own Gryffindor scarf and staring at it as if it would turn into a snake at any moment. Then he dropped it and looked around to see if anyone had noticed.

The handwriting under the picture—Draco’s hand—said, _Sirius Black, September 1970. The people I talked to tell me he was rather surprised to be Sorted into his House._

Harry’s eyes did blur with tears, this time, and he had to hesitate for long moments before he looked on.

Pictures of his father. Pictures of Remus. Pictures of the Marauders together. More pictures of his mother and Sirius, smiling over books, having mock duels in the Gryffindor common room, proudly holding up completed essays or potions. A picture of Dumbledore, his eyebrows mildly raised as he regarded a young student in front of his desk who seemed to be trying to hide an owl, which was bright green with polka dots, behind her back. More pictures than were in Hagrid’s photo album, more than Harry had ever known existed.

At last, Harry reached the final page. A photograph of Draco waited there, his own age, staring at the camera. Then he closed his left eye in a slow, flirtatious wink, and his smile burst across his face.

The “caption,” this time, said: _I spent a lot of time writing to people who knew your parents in Hogwarts, or who were in Gryffindor House at the time, or who were professors when they were students. I hope it’s good. No, I hope it’s perfect. And yes, I dare to include a picture of myself here, because I dare to hope that someday I’ll be someone you might come to love._

_Happy birthday, Harry._

_Love, Draco._

Harry closed his eyes, and tried to think of the time it must have taken Draco, the patience, the sheer _concentration_ , to assemble this.

The sensation of being intensely hunted—intensely courted—returned again, but this time it was not so unpleasant.

Damn it, he was crying again.

Even after the other owls began to arrive, he sat with his eyes closed, his hand resting on Draco’s picture, his body wracked with shivers he couldn’t control.


	14. August (Part One)

Harry now thought he knew what a piece of rope in a game of tug-of-war felt like.

He didn’t enjoy it.

Ginny had contacted him again on his birthday, officially giving him permission to owl her. She’d sent a Pensieve containing a few of the genuinely happy memories of their first years together as a gift. Her letters were brave and sad, reminding Harry that she didn’t have much more of an idea of what to do than he did, and that he wasn’t the only one suffering from the loss of their innocence. She did give him permission to tell Ralph about the mess with Malfoy, if he really wanted to. Ralph had been Harry’s friend for almost as long as he’d been his partner, and his adoration of Ginny was unabashed. She wouldn’t mind him knowing, she said.

She never made any reference to Malfoy as anything other than “the complication” or “the problem.” Harry found she didn’t need to. It was still there, in his owls and hers, an unspoken shadow.

Draco wrote gently coaxing letters, at least one a day, many of which never mentioned the Veela or their last assignation at all. He talked about his day, described his coach’s irritation and the expensive, inane dinner parties he went to in amusing detail, and asked questions about Harry’s past which he didn’t want to answer. Sometimes he asked to meet for lunch or dinner, but he seemed to graciously accept Harry’s refusals each time.

And then there was the letter where he described a favorite fantasy of his. That was the wording he used, giving Harry no room to doubt it.

_I know it’s a day one or the other of us should work. But we don’t want to. We’re lying in my bed—the one in my bedroom, not the Transfigured one in the gardens. You lie on your back with me slightly on top of you, but we’re so closely entwined it hardly matters. We’re so warm, too. There’s a fire blazing on the hearth, but most of it is body heat and sheer contentment._

_Once or twice I try to stand and roll out of the bed. You pull me back each time, muttering sleepily about how we’re Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy and should have a day off if the rest of the wizarding world gets one every so often._

_I can touch you wherever I want. I do, in between dozing sessions. I wake up and my hand’s on your hip, on your knee, on your groin. Everything about you is mine, and you want it to be. This makes you happy._

_It’s become much easier to have that fantasy since I actually know, now, what you look like happy and sated._

The letter left Harry with a soft, squeezing warmth in the center of his chest when he finished reading it, and he thought that was probably the most dangerous thing of all. He put the parchment down, went running in the streets near Grimmauld Place, and tried to think about Ginny. But his mind filled with thoughts of Draco like a sky with falling stars, and usually he just gave up and thought about him, instead.

Sometimes he sat in the one room on the upper floors of the house that had a decent view—of the house’s back gardens—and stared out the window at the sunset, trying to decide what in the world he should do.

Maybe he should do what Malfoy had advised, and consider what it was that he wanted, since trying to balance the competing claims of the people around him got him nowhere.

Well, that was simple. He wanted his old life back. He wanted this never to have happened. He seriously contemplated, just for a moment, trying to find a Time-Turner and travel back so he could prevent Malfoy’s Potions accident.

But, bar that, what did he want?

He had not the slightest bloody idea.

When he took the time to clear the clutter out of his head and achieve the calm, balanced state that Kingsley had taught his Aurors to enter before the start of each raid, he did have an idea of what the right thing to do was, though. He’d taken marriage vows with Ginny. He had bent them, but he had not yet broken them. At least, she didn’t seem to think so, since she’d given him one last chance to prove himself.

All right. So he had to return to the life he’d once had the hard way—not by going backwards, but by traveling through the months in front of him. He and Ginny could come back together. Their marriage would never again be what it had been, no, but it _could_ be stronger after the break. They both knew what they were capable of in the face of adversity now, and they both knew they’d fight for each other. This could be like—like the trials some couples faced when they found out that they couldn’t have children. Yes. He liked that analogy.

The night he decided on that, Harry had gone to his bedroom, pleased with his thoughts, and then caught sight of himself in the mirror as he undressed to take a shower. The silvery sheen of the claiming mark, in the shape of Malfoy’s lips, flared against the paler skin of his neck. Thank God robes covered it.

Hesitantly, Harry pressed a finger into it.

Warmth coursed over him, as if Malfoy stood behind him with wings extended and drooping, and memories of the night they’d spent together flooded Harry, so intensely that his knees buckled. He caught himself with one hand on the wall of the loo just before he might have slipped and cracked his head.

The mark hadn’t done that when the collar of his robes brushed against it, he thought dazedly as he stood up again. He supposed it took deliberate touch.

He’d purchased a few books on Veela. He knew what the claiming mark meant. The Veela was saying _mine_! for the whole world to see, though originally the mark had been meant simply to speak to others of its own kind.

Malfoy seemed to accept they hadn’t reached that point yet, hence his placing the mark where it could be hidden. But the intention was clear enough.

Harry shook his head and finished taking off his clothes, pulling at them roughly. Maybe he should accept one of those lunch invitations, just so he could ask Malfoy when he intended to give up.

He did his best to convince himself that the hard-on he had now was entirely a coincidence.

*

“Really, Pansy.” Draco pried at her tight clutch on his arm as subtly as possible. “Maybe you should let me go? Blaise is over there. I haven’t seen him since that party in March. And don’t have so much to drink, next time,” he added for the benefit of the people looking at them curiously.

He was alone in the room in knowing that it wasn’t wine that had made Pansy’s cheeks flush like that. Draco had slowly increased the amount of Veela allure he used on her day by day. By now, she was well on her way to being addicted to his touch; an ordinary human lover would have to work awfully hard to make her look at him with any degree of desire.

The eyes on him also made his skin crawl, but it was with satisfaction, and the urge to burst out laughing. The attention was worth it, for what it would mean in the end. Let the whole world see that Draco Malfoy’s wife had become just a bit too attached to him, to the point where she followed him like a duckling.

“Draco,” Pansy breathed. She probably thought she was whispering. She wasn’t. “I’m bored here. Let’s go home. I want you to fuck me.”

Draco flushed; the embarrassment was real. He hadn’t known she was quite that far gone yet. He heard laughter and regretted using so much allure.

For a moment.

Then he thought of the day when he could come to parties like this and have Harry on his arm, looking at him with passion and amusement in his eyes, and he found it impossible to regret anything.

“Pansy,” he hissed at her. “Calm down. You’re making a scene.”

“I don’t care!” Pansy turned to face the room, holding up her wineglass. “I want everyone to know that I have the very best husband in the world! A toast to Draco Malfoy, witches and wizards, if you would!”

Most people who drank the toast around her did so with grand mock solemnity. Others were too consumed with laughter to even attempt it. A few people shook their heads pityingly. Of course, Pansy Malfoy could usually control her liquor, but Draco knew it wasn’t likely that they would believe this was part of a cunning master plan of hers. It was too loud, too obvious, too mortifying, too—

Too _common._

Pansy had spent years building a reputation as a cool, reserved witch, someone who could deliver stinging insults and carefully polished condolences in the same even tone. She wouldn’t sacrifice it like this. She was just drunk, or so everyone would think until the moment when Draco went public as Veela and revealed Harry as his properly fated and destined mate.

Then they would just think her hopelessly addicted to his allure. So sad, really, it could happen to anyone…

Draco took his wife’s arm, gave the rest of the party an apologetic, exasperated look, and prepared to Apparate home with Pansy.

He landed at the Manor feeling odd, as though he had somehow got sick to his stomach between one moment and the next. He swallowed several times and rubbed his gut experimentally, releasing Pansy; she draped herself over one of the chairs, giggling and hiccupping in equal measure. Had he eaten something that disagreed with him? Even more unlikely, had someone managed to poison him at the party?

Then his head jerked to the side, and a spot low on the right side of his neck flared with pain.

He recognized those signs from his reading.

His mate was in immediate danger.

The Veela in his head _shrieked_ , and then Draco’s pulse began to beat, a sound like giant wings coming closer and closer.

His breath quickening, his anger rising so swiftly that it hurt, Draco stretched a hand out in front of him, as the book on Veela courtship had advised him, and closed his fingers tightly. A sensation like string sliding through his fist touched him. He made sure he had a firm grip on his wand.

Then the imaginary string snapped taut, pulling him across the distance to Harry’s side in an involuntary Apparition.

The Veela came with him, snarling and roaring fit for two. It would snap whoever was trying to kill its mate in _half_.

*

It had been swift.

Harry was returning from his latest run when a spell exploded beside him, landing with a _crack_ that ripped open the pavement. Harry didn’t think the attacker was above him this time, or at least not far above.

He hurled himself forwards and sideways, deliberately moving in confusing zigs and zags that made it impossible to tell where he would go next and, thus, impossible to fire spells at. Or at least that was the way it was supposed to work. Another spell passed him, and though the full force missed him again, its trailing edge caught him along the ribs, slicing through the soft gray cotton of his T-shirt as if it were nothing. Harry stumbled, hissing, and blood ran down his side like thicker, warmer sweat.

He turned even that to his advantage, because as his head hung and his vision swung, he caught a glimpse of his attacker. That last spell had made him visible; some offensive magic did that. He’d probably been using a Disillusionment Charm. His broom hovered just a few feet off the ground, and he wore a heavy cloak that shielded everything from his face to the thickness of his limbs and the shape of his body.

Harry planted one foot, turned the momentum of his stagger into an efficient turn, and leveled his wand straight at the attacker. “ _Conquasso_!” he shouted, casting one of the spells just on the edge of Dark Arts, which Kingsley had warned them all never to use unless they were _sure_ their lives were in danger.

Harry thought this bloody _qualified._

White light charged from the end of his wand, splitting into one fork, then two, then six, then hundreds. Most of them landed solidly on target, because the broom dodged too late, and the terrific retort of several dozen bones shattering at once echoed across the air to Harry. His enemy screamed a moment later, and then vanished.

 _He managed an Apparition even with that_ , Harry thought. He laughed, high on adrenaline, and then winced; that made his ribs ache something _fierce. I suppose he was right to brag in his letter._

Another pop sounded. Harry brought his wand up, just in case his enemy had an accomplice, and blinked when he saw Malfoy standing there, wings swirling around him in lazy patterns with white magic trailing them, his face furious.

“What are you doing here?” Harry asked, pressing a hand over the wound to control the bleeding. Not a danger, he judged as it began to respond to the pressure. He’d had much worse. An elementary healing spell, such as he was capable of managing, could close most of it, and he’d scrub and sponge the rest.

“The claiming mark told me you were in danger,” Malfoy said, his words nearly too high and shrill for Harry to understand. His eye fell right where it shouldn’t, on Harry’s bloodstained fingers. “I see it was right,” he added, and came forwards to—

Oh, he _wouldn’t—_

But he did. He scooped Harry up with his arms and wings, hoisted him off his feet with effortless strength, and looked around for a brief moment. He must have identified Number Twelve by the tingle of its wards, because he blinked, but then started heading in the right direction.

“I didn’t think you lived here, Harry,” he murmured.

Harry fought madly against the temptation to go limp that those fucking wings always induced in him. His head already drooped against Malfoy’s shoulder, and his muscles were relaxing rapidly from their tight battle coil. An insistent little voice in his mind whispered: _Let go, let Draco take care of everything._

He coughed, then mustered enough will to say, “Long story. Look, could you put me back on my feet?”

“With that wound?” Malfoy asked incredulously, pausing and waiting at the edge of the wards. Reluctantly, Harry waved his wand, dissipated the protections, and set them to close behind them when they’d passed inside. Malfoy continued carrying him towards the house, of course. “You can’t walk, Harry.”

“Of _course_ I can bloody walk!” Harry struggled a bit, and finally managed to tear away from Malfoy just as they reached the door. Maybe the git’s insane Veela strength left him when he realized his mate wasn’t in any danger. “If you hadn’t shown up, I would have walked right up to the door, healed myself, and drawn a bath.”

Malfoy looked at him as if he had pronounced the moon were made of green cheese. “Harry,” he said gently. “Someone _attacked_ you.”

Harry snorted and wriggled the hand not pressed against his wound in Malfoy’s face. He felt remarkably better, much more clear-headed, now that he was out of the grip of the wings. “And I’m all here. See?”

Malfoy’s face changed so fast that Harry might have been frightened, but he was in his own _home_ , and this prat, besides being the one who’d made Harry’s life difficult for the last half a year with his Veela side—

_And writing you caring, comforting letters—_

—had just appeared out of nowhere, for no reason, and was saying perfectly ridiculous things. Harry raised an eyebrow back, and waited for the outburst that would make Malfoy sound like an imbecile.

*

Draco hadn’t experienced anger like this before. The Veela practically vibrated in him, as if it were a crystal that might break if the right note were struck. Its mate had been attacked, and now he stood there looking mulish, even _telling Draco off_ , as if it were—

As if it were no big deal, as if he hadn’t almost died—

Draco shoved the door open with a violent kick. Harry, who had been partially leaning against it, staggered inwards, but Draco caught him before he could hit the floor, wrapped his wings around him again, and whispered, “Relax.” His reading had reassured him that few mates could resist any command while held in feathers.

Harry’s eyelids drooped. He moaned, a word that sounded a lot like, “Bastard.”

“ _Relax_ , Harry.”

Harry went limp, finally. Draco carried him without effort up the stairs, past a truly creepy set of curtains and a line of empty plaques that looked as if they’d once been used to house hunting trophies of some kind, perhaps animal heads. He couldn’t believe Harry would consent to live like this.

He didn’t. He was here because something had happened at the house he shared with his wife, Draco was sure of it.

Another attack, perhaps?

The _idiot_. Someone had put his life in danger at least once before, and he hadn’t reported it, he’d just endured it, maybe he’d even _enjoyed_ it, like the absolute and utter _idiot_ that he was—

The Veela sent constantly changing daydreams, one of finding and beating the shit out of the wizard who had attacked its mate, and another of holding Harry still until he babbled out the truth, then wrapping him in thick woolen blankets and tying him to Draco’s bed, since he obviously couldn’t be trusted to take care of himself.

Draco quite agreed.

The bedroom was too large, dark, and bare, with heavy plain furniture and only a single lamp next to the bed. Draco deposited Harry on the blankets and snorted. When Harry accepted the way things would be and moved into the Manor, Draco would give him several rooms twice as large and lavish as this one just to be alone in. Not, of course, that Harry would stay there at night, since he’d share Draco’s bed, but it was the thought that counted.

Draco had thought about Harry’s wound, too, and though he wasn’t perfectly adept with healing magic, he had decided he’d have to cleanse and cure the wound. It would simply raise too many questions if he carried Harry to St. Mungo’s now. For one thing, someone would eventually question why _Draco Malfoy_ , of all people, had brought Harry Potter in; for another, the Healers would find Harry’s claiming mark; for a third, this might be just the shock that would break through the allure daze Draco had inflicted on Pansy.

He pulled back Harry’s shirt and studied the wound. It had stopped bleeding, thank God. Not especially long, but deep. Draco pressed the feathers of one wing across Harry’s forehead.

“You stay here,” he said. “You can’t move.”

Harry’s hand, which had been creeping towards his wand, froze at once. His eyes screamed frustration at Draco.

Draco didn’t care. He would have preferred it if Harry had asked for help on his own, of course, but he didn’t _mind_ commanding his mate and healing him like this. The Veela had had an array of quite interesting daydreams where it took care of a helpless Harry. It couldn’t last forever, but sometimes this would be necessary, and this was one of the times. Harry might not like the care, but he would have to accept it.

He retracted his wings, went into the loo, and found towels and hot water. This would have been easier with a house-elf to help him, but he didn’t care about that, either. He gathered up the supplies he needed and hurried back out.

Just in time. Harry, who had an incredibly strong will—Draco remembered those rumors about his being able to throw off the Imperius Curse in fourth year—had planted a hand in the sheets and was struggling to sit up. He also had his wand in hand again and appeared to be whispering a healing charm under his breath.

“Stop that!” Draco snapped, nearly enraged now. Harry’s health was _his_ health, too, didn’t he understand that? Or did he imagine it was easy for Draco to stand by and admire his wounds?

Harry swung to face him with a surprised gasp, and Draco’s eyes narrowed. Some sort of glamour had faded, that was obvious, maybe out of the sheer stress Harry had been under, from the fight and resisting Draco’s command. Dark burns encircled his mouth and ears, and more, though faded from what must have been bright pain, curled down his arms.

 _Something else happened. And he hid it from me_. A freezing anger stirred in Draco’s gut, quite unlike the fiery rage of the Veela. _And the increased control of his magic that the Transformation initiated probably helped him. He’s my mate. He’s not allowed to lie to me. Not about things like this._

“This isn’t the first time, is it,” he said flatly, as he strode forwards and practically slammed the bowl of hot water down next to Harry. He dipped one of the towels in the water and reached for the wound. When Harry started to wriggle away, he added in the same even tone, “So help me, I will break your legs to keep you in bed if you don’t sit still and tell me the fucking truth.”

*

Harry supposed he didn’t have to attend a private lunch now to know exactly what Malfoy planned for him. He thought Harry would be his _property_ , that was clear, his to order about and force bed rest on when it was perfectly obvious that Harry didn’t need it.

Fury flashed up in him, the same impatient, reckless emotion he’d always felt when the Dursleys discussed putting him back in the cupboard, and he leaned forwards so that he held Malfoy’s eyes. He willed the gentleness of the warm wet cloth across his wound and the memories of what it had been like to make love last month very firmly away.

“You have no right,” he hissed. “I don’t have to tell you _anything_.”

“I have a perfect right.” Malfoy’s eyes were clear, with a kind of anger in them Harry had never seen before. His free hand rose and curled around Harry’s neck, stilling him as he tried to shy away. His fingers stroked the claiming mark, and Harry felt his mind briefly go blank. When he could see again, Malfoy was practically snarling at him. “This says that we belong to each other. And your death is my death, Harry. I suppose it never occurred to you that if you died, I’d die, too?”

Harry blinked. Tried to answer. Caught his breath. Cast his eyes down and couldn’t think of a thing to say.

Sickness and guilt washed over him, and _my_ , weren’t _those_ familiar and pleasant companions after seven months?

“I just want this to stop happening,” he whispered, and ran a hand over his mouth. “To go _away_. For the problems to stop and someone to tell me that it’s all right, that I don’t have to make an ethically dubious decision today. I’m so _tired_.”

Malfoy said nothing for long moments. Then he nudged Harry. “Lie down. And take off your shirt. I have to scrub this further, and I don’t think it’s best for you to sit up right now.”

Numb, Harry did so, wincing and hissing again as the motion of pulling off his shirt made the wound stretch. Malfoy slightly increased the pressure of the cloth, and Harry groaned, just grateful to know that someone else’s hand was guiding it and he didn’t have to do it himself.

_But then, that’s the whole problem, isn’t it?_

Malfoy said at last, softly, “I will give you whatever you desire, Harry. You only have to hint that you want something, and it’s yours. And what you’re speaking about are specific things the Veela wants to give you. A warm shoulder to support you, a shared bed, someone you can talk to about _all_ your problems. A person, a companion, a partner you don’t have to hide anything from.”

With an effort, Harry turned his head. Malfoy’s eyes burned with a different emotion now, but Harry couldn’t immediately tell what it was.

Then he leaned forwards and brought his lips down over Harry’s in a gentle kiss.

Harry recognized the emotion then. It was caring, warm and soft and relentless. It was intimacy. The kiss promised absolute surrender for absolute surrender. If he gave in, Malfoy—Draco—wouldn’t hide anything from him, and he wouldn’t have to hide anything, either. This offer was no-holds-barred, everything it seemed.

This would consume him. Harry knew it. Give in, as the gentle, insistent, continuing kiss begged, and he would have no hope of coming back to Ginny, because everything about him would be Draco’s.

It terrified Harry.

At last, the kiss ended, and Malfoy pulled back to continue bathing the wound. Harry shut his eyes, because he couldn’t possibly meet and match that clear, calm gaze.

“That’s what I want,” Malfoy said. “No secrets. Someone who’s shared _that_ with me is not going to hide them.”

Harry spent a few moments forcing his breathing to calm. He flinched a bit when Malfoy cast a spell to heal as much of his wound as possible, but he didn’t let it disturb the state of mind he was falling into, the one that was usual in the _aftermath_ of a battle, to subdue the dangerous parts of himself and the excited parts both.

“Maybe not someone who’s shared that with you,” he said, opening his eyes at last. “But I might.”

Malfoy cocked his head at him as he flicked his wand again, this time to clean up the blood that had spilled on the bedcovers. “I would be interested to know the difference, Harry.”

Harry rubbed his face with his hand again. “Why do you think I kept this secret in the first place?”

“Because you aren’t as intelligent as you think you are?”

“That’s true of everyone.” Harry clenched his teeth so he wouldn’t yawn; with the mother-hen mood Malfoy seemed to be in, he would force Harry to go to bed if he saw so much as a sign of weariness. “No, I kept it secret because it felt as though I had nothing of my own anymore. I was sharing my memories, my body, my time, my innermost feelings—none of which were good.” He shrugged, and decided it wasn’t so hard to meet and match that gaze after all. “I wanted _something_ private.”

“Why?”

Harry chuckled a bit. He knew the sound was bitter, but Malfoy wanted honesty, didn’t he? “Let’s say—my life has been too public. I used to keep my most precious belongings under the floorboards as a child, because otherwise my Muggle relatives, who didn’t like magic, would have taken them away from me. I had no privacy at Hogwarts, especially not once Skeeter took an interest in me. And even people who hadn’t the least idea about me presumed they knew me, because they’d seen my face and name in the papers.” He shrugged and leaned back against the pillows. “You’ve seen for yourself that I didn’t tell Ginny _everything_. Now it seemed I was entering a time when I did have to do that. For the best of reasons, of course, but it strained me and stressed me and came near to pulling me apart.”

He felt a bit calmer now—true calm, not that artificially induced by Auror training. He turned so that he could meet Malfoy eye-to-eye. Malfoy was at least intently listening, though Harry had a hard time telling what was in his expression beyond intensity.

“And that’s why I can’t be part of this,” Harry said calmly. “In my marriage, I had a choice what to hold back. With you, I won’t. You said it. I’m not the right partner for you—not temperamentally, whatever we’re like in bed.” His cheeks stung with their flush when he said that, but he went on staring at Malfoy. “I think it best we maintain the more limited contact we have now and give up ambitions towards anything else.”

*

Draco wanted to curse. But he sensed doing so would only drive Harry back into his shell, which he didn’t want at all.

_Oh, the poor idiot._

“I didn’t mean every single secret,” Draco said slowly, and this time knelt down on the bed, next to Harry. Harry twisted himself to the side, apparently to keep a few inches of space between them. Draco allowed it, since he didn’t want Harry to stress the wound. “Only the ones that could put your life in danger. I _want_ to know when something like this happens, Harry, because I _need_ to.”

“The kiss felt like more than that.”

The Veela crooned agreement in the back of his head, but since the Veela was currently dreaming of devouring Harry whole with whipped cream, Draco was not inclined to take it seriously.

“That would happen if you _wanted_ it to,” Draco stressed, and let his hands fall to rest on his knees. God, he wanted to touch Harry, but it was a sign of trust already—though Harry probably didn’t realize it—for him to lie flat in front of Draco and glare up at him. Small steps. He wanted to coax Harry in, not frighten him so badly he would run back to that unthreatening wife of his. “The only thing inevitable about it is that we’re both passionate people. I really don’t think we could keep _from_ falling completely in love like that, if you would take that final step.”

The ache for Harry to trust him that completely was as keen as the sexual hunger he’d felt at one point. The Veela was very nearly sated on that now. What it wanted was Harry’s heart.

Draco was very glad Harry couldn’t hear what was going on in his head right now. _He’d probably laugh himself sick at the sappiness of it all._

“And that’s exactly what I won’t give you.” Harry’s voice was cool and calm, his face open and determined.

Draco ignored the stab of pain from the Veela. He simply studied Harry until the other man turned his head away, still finding it hard, evidently, to looked at someone had his well-being in mind. Then Draco lowered his head and spent a few moments licking the claiming mark.

That sent bliss flowing through Harry, he knew. He pulled back before it could become too much and Harry would panic. He just wanted to make a point. Never mind that his mouth tingled and ached the way it did when he ate ice cream too fast.

“I know you like this,” he said. “And you could conquer your fear of my loving you so completely as you’ve faced any other such fear. What _really_ holds you back, Harry? What’s going to drive you into Ginny’s arms, when you _know_ that you would spend the rest of your life remembering me every time you made love to her?” Some of the Veela’s pleading crept into his tone, though he had not willed it to. “What keeps you from letting yourself be happy?”

It took long moments before Harry could pull his voice out of oblivion to answer, but he did it.

“I wouldn’t be happy if Ginny were suffering,” he said, and rolled back over to look at Draco. His eyes held the kind of defiance that Draco suspected the Dark Lord had found infuriating. “And I took marriage vows with her first. I was hers first.”

“Things have changed,” Draco said.

“Yes,” Harry said. “And I didn’t will them to.”

Draco nibbled his lip in thought. “That bothers you, doesn’t it? For all that you came up with a plan to let us endure a year together, it bothers you.”

Harry looked at Draco as if he had asked whether Harry liked having lemon juice rubbed in his wounds. “Of _course_ it bothers me,” he said. “I’ve had my life controlled by fate and destiny and things I couldn’t do anything _about_. There was a prophecy that said I would be the one to kill Voldemort. And then being helpless to do anything but _kill_ my two best friends rather increased my liking for self-reliance.” His voice was a low snarl now, the kind he used when he thought people were being stupid. “I _chose_ to marry Ginny. I _chose_ my work as an Auror. I didn’t choose this—this whatever it is that we’re in.”

“Relationship,” Draco said, amused in spite of himself. “The word is relationship, Harry.”

“Relationship, then.” Harry’s eyes flashed. “I didn’t choose it, I don’t want it—“

Draco pierced him with a look.

“The part of me that wants it is physical alone,” Harry said without hesitation.

Draco bent towards him and whispered into his ear, because he wanted to, because he could. “So you didn’t appreciate the time and effort I took to make that photo album for you? So you watched my Quidditch game just because you felt an incredible physical draw to me? So you _weren’t_ unconscious with a smile of exhausted pleasure on your lips the last time we made love? So—“

“ _Stop_!”

Draco sat back, but didn’t retreat further than that. He spoke very plainly, because that seemed to be the only way Harry would understand. “I won’t hurt you. I don’t plan to force you into anything you genuinely don’t want. I won’t even use my wings and my claiming mark to make you relax, though your reaction to both of them is _perfectly_ natural. But I won’t go away, I won’t stop making gestures to help and comfort you, and I won’t pretend not to exist.”

Harry gave a sound somewhere between a grunt and a strangled moan. “You _have_ to,” he whispered. “Don’t you see that you _have_ to?”

“Why?” Draco asked, barely moving his lips.

“Because otherwise there’s a good chance that I’ll fall in love with you, you prick!”

The words echoed in the room. Draco saw Harry widen his eyes in realization, and then he tried to turn his face away.

Draco caught his chin, gently, keeping him in place. He held Harry’s eyes as he said, “Nothing would make me happier.”

Harry gritted his teeth. “And you don’t care at all about Ginny’s happiness?” His voice was thick, as if he had choked down tears.

“No,” Draco said softly. “I don’t want to hurt her, because she meant something to you—“

“ _Means_ , Malfoy.”

Draco continued with only a small tilt of his head in acknowledgment. “But I don’t think she has a right to be content when it comes at your expense. So, yes, I will woo you, court you, pursue you very gently, until you see sense and realize that this isn’t something you need to fight.”

Harry closed his eyes and said nothing. Draco suspected he didn’t want to. There was part of him that enjoyed this—as who wouldn’t?—and even though Harry didn’t want to listen to it, it would have increasingly louder voice in his actions.

“I won’t even force you to tell me the secret of _this_ for right now.” Draco traced a line across the wound on Harry’s ribs. “Come and have lunch with me tomorrow, and you can tell me then.”

“I’m going to the Burrow to see Ginny tomorrow,” Harry said, looking at him directly. “It’s her birthday.” There was a kind of twisted triumph in his eyes, as if he enjoyed the rock-solid excuse even though it hurt him, too.

The Veela loosed an earth-shattering shriek in Draco’s head. He gritted his teeth and said, “The day after that, then.”

“It depends on what Ginny says.”

Draco huffed and got to his feet. He spent a moment touching Harry’s lightning bolt scar, not wanting to break contact with his beautiful, infuriating, fascinating mate.

“Someday, Harry,” he said softly, “you’ll spend time with me of your own free will, and we’ll have that fantasy I described to you in my letter several days ago.”

Color swept into Harry’s face, and he looked away. Draco stooped and gave him a kiss on one flushed cheek, making it matter less than the impassioned one that had declared his intentions earlier, but showing that those intentions were still present, still there, still waiting patiently for the day that Harry finally got sick of denying himself.

Then he swept out the door.


	15. August (Part Two)

“Harry. Come walk with me, would you?”

They’d eaten cake, and Ginny had opened a pile of gifts, including the necklace from Harry that ended in a silver locket with a picture of both of them inside it. Harry knew he had taken a risk, but Ginny only nodded over it, thanked him solemnly, and set it aside with the other gifts. It would have been better if she’d hung it around her neck, Harry thought, but this was much better than if she had thrown it across the room.

And now Molly and Arthur politely looked away, and the twins pretended to be engaged in discussions of their products, and Angelina looked at Harry with pity in her eyes—

And Ginny beckoned him from the front door of the Burrow, her eyes intent but with no smile in them.

Harry stood, and went.

They ambled easily enough across the ground outside the Burrow. The sun shone down, but mildly, not with the full force it had had even just a few weeks ago. Long golden fingers of light crept across the grass. Here and there, Harry could see a gnome’s head peeping out, but they withdrew hastily when they caught sight of him and Ginny.

Ginny wore a set of blue robes that made her pale skin look paler, and her brown eyes stand out large and clear in her face. Harry thought she hadn’t looked more beautiful since the day he came back to her, told her Voldemort was dead, and asked her to marry him. She had watched him with the same solemn look for long moments before her face opened in a brilliant smile.

Harry didn’t think that would happen this time. No matter how often he glanced at her from the corner of his eye, he saw only a face bowed and half-hidden behind a mane of bright hair, and her hands swinging emptily, aimlessly, at her sides.

They walked until no one could have heard them from the Burrow even with Extendable Ears, and then Ginny drew a deep breath and came to a halt. Harry did the same thing, and turned to face her. His heart was beating so hard that he felt sick, and had to swallow several times.

 _She might look at me this way if she was planning to tell me it was all over_ , he thought. _It isn’t exactly what she looked like the night she told me she was leaving, but it’s close enough._

“I miss you,” Ginny said.

Harry’s sickness turned to relief all at once. But Ginny was shaking and seemed ready to collapse, so he forced himself to be strong for her. He stepped towards her, tucked his arms around her shoulders, and whispered, “Really.”

“Yes.” Ginny nestled back into his shoulder. “I didn’t think it would be this bad,” she whispered. “I thought—six months of watching you with him, having to endure what I did—I thought that was enough to wear me out and make me bitter at the thought of coming back to you.”

She paused, and added, “I’m not coming back to you. Not yet. But I did want you to know that I missed you.”

“Thank you,” Harry said. And it did ease his heart. Ginny’s letters had been so formal that it had been hard to guess what she felt from them. He had thought she might enjoy her freedom and want a divorce after this.

That would sever their last connection, leave him aching and broken, and make him easy prey for Malfoy.

Harry didn’t want that to happen.

Ginny stepped back from him, took his hands, and gazed into his eyes. Harry mimicked the posture, not sure what she would do next.

“Fleur’s spoken to me several times,” Ginny murmured. “Told me that this transformation on Malfoy’s part is natural, and no one chose it, but he shouldn’t be blamed, either, any more than you get to blame someone for puberty.” She raised one hand and put it on Harry’s shoulder. “But that doesn’t mean we need to give in to it, does it?”

“Of course not,” Harry murmured. His excitement and fear were making him sick again.

Ginny gave him a faint echo of her usual smile then. “Good. I thought you’d agree to fight with me on this. You’re a natural fighter, Harry. The trials you’ve gone through—“ She shook her head. “I think they would have killed me, or Malfoy, or any other dozen people that you cared to name. So. I know that you feel a kind of obligation to Malfoy. Fleur explained it to me, how the changes in a Veela affect its mate. So I thought—“ She paused a moment, licking her lips, and Harry wondered when the gesture had stopped affecting him the way it used to. Then she said, “ _I’ll_ talk to Malfoy.”

Harry blinked. He thought about it for a moment. Then he said, “Are you sure that’s safe?”

“Will the Veela attack me, do you mean?” Ginny’s voice was rich with good humor. “Well, it might. But I won’t be foolish enough to meet with him alone, Harry.”

“Meeting in public—“ Harry was privately amazed that rumors about him and Malfoy hadn’t started circulating already, actually, given Malfoy’s several impetuous visits to the Ministry.

“Oh, not in public,” said Ginny. “But Fleur will be with me. She’s lived with her own Veela powers since birth. She can certainly stop anything Malfoy tries. And she’s my sister-in-law. I know that her loyalty is _entirely_ with me.” She eyed Harry for a moment.

Harry winced. He could hear the unspoken words— _as yours isn’t_ —as loudly as if she had shouted them.

“If you feel it’s a good plan, a safe plan,” he said, “then yes, I think you should.” Malfoy had said he cared nothing for Ginny’s happiness, but maybe it would be different when they met face-to-face.

“Good.” Ginny patted his arm. “We’ll try for the fifteenth, since that’s the next day Fleur can take away from work. If Malfoy won’t answer, she and I are prepared to go to the Manor.”

“All right.” Harry would have liked to bow his head and take a kiss from her, but he didn’t think she’d want it. “If you’re sure.”

“I am.” Ginny settled the matter by putting her arms around his neck and drawing him down for the kiss herself.

Only a tremendous amount of effort kept Harry from wrenching back and vomiting with disgust. He had grown used to touches on the hand and shoulders from others—one had to, when one had a partner like Ralph, prone to pushing people playfully into walls at every opportunity—but he’d kissed no one but Malfoy since the Transformation started. He hadn’t known that Ginny’s mouth would taste like oil and garbage, that even the merest brush of their lips would make him think instead of Malfoy with painful longing.

 _But if you can do this_ , he reminded himself, _it’s only a few months until Malfoy has to give up._

He broke the kiss gently, and drew back, looking into Ginny’s eyes and trying his very best to show her that part of his heart that was hers.

“I think you can do anything you set your mind to,” he said.

She smiled back at him, obviously pleased, and looped her arm within his for the walk to the house. Harry ignored the way his skin vibrated and tingled with displeasure, hypersensitive, except for the finger where he wore the silver ring with a curl of Malfoy’s hair, concealed under a glamour.

_I can ignore the parts of myself that tell me I’m his. I have to be able to._

*

Draco had been sufficiently intrigued when he received the little Weasley’s owl to agree to meet on the fifteenth, particularly when he heard that she was bringing her sister-in-law with her. She’d chosen a small restaurant located on a street, Whimsic Alley, that ran parallel to Diagon but contained more restaurants than shops and more “discreet services” than either. No one would trouble them while they met in a small, private room at the back of the Phoenix’s Nest. Draco had actually thought of bringing Harry to this place for one of the private meals he still thought they should have, not least because the staff would arrange for a room with both a table and a bed should they wish it.

Pansy had let him go without a murmur. She now mostly wanted to spend her time at his feet, having her hair petted like a cat. Draco had coaxed her to reveal one cache of photographs hidden in the Manor and let him destroy them. When he asked her about the others, she still demurred and had a spark of temper in her eyes, so Draco estimated he would need another month or so there.

He entered the Phoenix’s Nest and looked around. A tall, beautiful woman with hair as pale as his own beckoned him from a doorway that would look like a part of the wall when it closed. Draco smiled slightly as he went towards her. It had been ten years since he’d last seen Fleur Delacour, but some things one didn’t forget. She still looked like a statue with shining silver hair, but such things only interested him on an aesthetic level now. Harry was already the only one who could make him hard; he had to think about him intensely on those evenings when Pansy demanded sex.

“Fleur…Weasley?” he asked as he took her hand and rubbed her knuckles with his lips. The Veela in him gave a little shudder, then felt the wave of complementary magic in Fleur’s being and went back to sleep instead of subjecting him to intense revulsion the way it usually did.

“Draco Malfoy,” she said in response, her French accent only a trace on some words. “Veela in the middle of Transformation. I would ‘ave known that if I did not know your name.”

“It’s a trying time,” said Draco, with a little shrug, and stepped past her into the interior of the room. He had seen the speculative gleam in Fleur’s eye, and wondered if the little Weasley had really brought an ally, or just a different kind of enemy. This was a woman who knew the ways of Veela and what one was required to do in order to keep and have a mate. She might feel it was better for all concerned that he and Harry have each other.

Weasley waited in the center of a pale room, in which her red hair shone like a flame. The only furniture was a table and three chairs. Two of them sat next to each other, leaving one for Draco in isolation.

“Malfoy,” she said, with an understandably chilly intonation, inclining her head just a bit.

“Ginny,” Draco said, feeling generous. Why shouldn’t he? Harry was on the verge of falling in love with him. Draco couldn’t estimate when he would, but now that he knew the goal was _possible_ , he would be much more patient.

From the way her face shut down, she didn’t find the use of her first name pleasing. She made a stiff motion at the chair across from her. Draco took it, keeping his face keen and interested.

“I’ve come to talk about Harry,” she said. Fleur sat beside her, turning her head slowly back and forth between the two of them. Her face had acquired a slightly haughty coolness that Draco thought was her natural, neutral expression. “I know that he does feel a sense of obligation to you, and that some of what he did was necessary, or you would have died.”

“Yes, I would have,” said Draco, not moving his eyes or his hands.

“But enough is enough.” Weasley had a force in her voice that Draco would have admired, were they discussing anyone but his mate. She leaned forwards. “I’ve come to tell you what Harry won’t tell you himself.”

“He said these words?”

Weasley shook her head. “No. But this is what he _would_ say, save that he’s too afraid of hurting you to say it.”

Draco bit the inside of his cheek to hold back a laugh and raised his eyebrows in invitation.

“Back off,” Weasley said. “You’ve taken what you needed, but now you’ve gone further than that; you’re taking what you want. I saw the mark on Harry’s neck when he came to the Burrow. You didn’t need to put that there to live. And he looked at me with confusion and misery in his eyes that I know _you’ve_ caused. Stop whatever you’re doing. Harry is only an amusement to you, only a toy, but he’s _my husband_. I care about him, and I _will_ defend him.”

Draco had been amused throughout most of that speech, but the last words nearly destroyed his self-control. He hissed, “He’s anything but an amusement to me. He’s my mate—“

“Only to the Veela part of you.” Weasley waved a hand as though dismissing that like smoke, never taking her eyes from him. “Fleur told me. The human part of you is something quite different, more selfish. So you can let him go, with only the minimum sexual contact between you until the end of the year.”

“I’m in love with him,” Draco said quietly.

It _was_ worth it to see Weasley’s jaw relocate itself halfway down her chest, though Draco would have preferred to say the words first to Harry. But with the mood he was in right now, he would probably have run, and Draco didn’t particularly want that to happen. He leaned back with his hands behind his head and waited, considerately, for Weasley to recover herself.

“You—you cannot be,” she whispered at last. Fleur had a slight frown on her face now, but she still made no move to interfere.

“Why? Because Harry is not lovable?” Draco snorted. “Forgive me for not believing that, when I know you married him.”

“But—“ Weasley shot a single glance at Fleur, and though the other witch gave her no encouragement that Draco could see, she seemed to draw strength from the look anyway. She tossed her head back and sat up a little straighter. “You and the Veela are still separate personae. There is no reason for you to be in love with him, even if the Veela is, and I have information that I trust that what the Veela feels is more like a very strong lust.”

Draco calmly shook his head. “The Veela and I have largely blended, and I’ve had a lot of time to think about this in the last two months. I _am_ in love with him, I promise. It’s not about just sex, anymore. I’ve sent him a birthday present, rowed with him, thought about him every spare moment of the day for what feels like as long as I can remember, and—this is very new for me, which, if you think about my past and my name, you will see must be true—realized that I would rather have him happy, even if that’s away from me, than anything else.”

Weasley didn’t waste time pouncing on that, of course. “Then why not step back, do the honorable thing, and let him return to me? You know that’s what would make him the happiest.”

“Oh, but I’m not convinced of that at all.” Draco smiled. He didn’t particularly want to cause Weasley pain, no, but, on the other hand, she was his rival, and could he help it if his confessions hurt her? “When I made love to him last month, I saw him happier than he’s been since this started.”

Weasley flinched a bit, but didn’t back down. “You’ve only known him as a person for a few months, Malfoy. Not at all long enough to form that good an opinion of him, not long enough to know what will make him content for the rest of his life.”

Draco made an irritated sound in the back of his throat. “I don’t mean content, Weasley. I mean happy. That is what I want for him, and I know I can give it to him, while I’m not convinced you can. And I may not know everything about him yet, but I am close. I have the Veela’s observational skills to back my own memory. Trust me, it notices every tiny detail about its mate.”

“That is true, Ginny,” Fleur said softly, putting a hand on her arm.

Weasley shook it off. Her jaw was clenched, but unlike on Harry, Draco didn’t find her stubborn look at all attractive, and was sure he would not have even if he were free to choose whom he was attracted to. “Then think about it from his perspective, Malfoy. Do you believe Harry really _wants_ you to pursue him?”

Draco bared his teeth. If Weasley wanted to take it for a smile, let her.

“I think it’s a delicate balancing act, truly,” he said. “Yes, I care about his happiness. But I also care about mine. Both of us matter; we couldn’t live side by side for decades—“

Weasley frowned at him.

“—and not have that be true. So I’ll humor Harry, seek to please him, yield when necessary, and care for his happiness. But he has to do the same things for me. I may be mistaken in some things concerning him, but I know what _I_ need to be happy, and he’s it. So there are some things I won’t do, and condemning myself to misery and suffering is one of them.”

Weasley sighed. “I still don’t understand why you’re doing this, Malfoy. You had a good marriage and a good social standing before this.”

“I did,” Draco agreed. “If the accident hadn’t happened to me, I would probably have remained content with them.”

She stared at him. “Then why aren’t you now?”

“Have you ever paid attention to him when he’s in the throes of passion?” Draco asked softly, leaning forwards so she could hear every word. “Ever seen his smile when he’s glad to see you, even if he doesn’t realize it? Watched him glaring at you when the Snitch dodged out of his grasp and into yours? I have, and I _paid attention_. That’s why I’m chasing him as hard as I reasonably can.”

Weasley exhaled. Her eyes were exhausted. “You’re wearing Harry to a thread. I hope you realize that.”

“I’m not,” said Draco. “The situation is. Some of that is his fault. He can’t admit what he needs, what makes him happy. He considers his own well-being as less important than other people’s. Tell me, do you really think you could change that, if he came back to you?”

“He does that because he’s compassionate, which is something I can see you don’t understand.” Weasley’s eyes glittered with anger.

“He’s _too_ compassionate,” Draco corrected her. “His selflessness borders on the stupid. And no, obviously you didn’t notice.”

“Harry can take care of himself.”

Draco studied her for some moments. She really did believe that, he decided. She hadn’t ignored Harry’s condition because she was self-absorbed; she had done it because she trusted him, and believed his lies.

That only increased Draco’s determination not to back out of this contest. Harry needed him. Draco could give him something that no one else could, because he would get Harry angry enough not to hold back, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“If you say so,” he murmured lightly. “The fact remains that I want him, Weasley, and I’ll have him. He has to make the decision, but he’s close to choosing me. I suggest you not force him. He won’t take it well.”

“This was a waste of time,” Weasley said softly, standing up. “You can’t see beyond the end of your own nose. I hope that you enjoy it, the moment you realize that Harry’s not some game you can play, nor some animal for you to _chase_.”

She walked with quiet dignity out of the Phoenix’s Nest. Draco shook his head at her back. She didn’t know Harry as well as she thought. It wasn’t really anyone’s fault, and it was a pity, looked at in a certain light, but since she was the source of it, Draco did not care to pity her.

Fleur coughed gently, and only then did Draco realize she had remained in the room. He turned to face her, head tilted curiously.

“You are much further advanced than I suspected,” Fleur murmured. “Eet can take years for some newly awakened Veela to accept their other ‘alf. But you ‘ave, and that means that you can be good for ‘arry.” She hesitated, then leaned across the table and kissed Draco on both cheeks.

“I am sorry for Ginny,” she whispered to him, “but I do ‘ope you can cause him to fall in love with you, and soon.”

She turned and followed her sister-in-law then.

Draco left a few minutes later with a faint smile, enjoying the first human contact other than Harry’s that hadn’t disgusted him since the Transformation.

About other things he was less happy. He highly suspected that Weasley would do her best to put Harry in a corner, for example.

He could do nothing but be there for Harry when it happened.

*

“Draco.”

Something was definitely wrong. Harry’s color was much too high, and his eyes glittered with a feverish brightness. Draco’s first thought was that he was drunk, and the next that his wound had become infected and given him a real fever. But when he touched Harry, and came close enough to smell his breath, he could see that neither was true.

Harry bent and kissed him with a kind of careful kindness. They had met at the bed, this time, with Draco lounging in wait. Draco tried to stand and undress him, but Harry pressed him flat with a small shake of his head, and a smile that trembled at the corners.

“No, don’t, let me,” Harry whispered.

“I’ve ‘let you’ every time we’ve been together.” Draco drew Harry back to him with another long, slow kiss. “Come, please, let me do this for you.” The Veela was awakening, filling his mind with a low humming, and Draco’s shoulders twitched as if his wings would grow out of their own volition. “You need to be pampered much more than I do, God knows.”

Harry’s hands briefly tightened like manacles. “Draco,” he said.

The sound made Draco lift his eyes to Harry’s face, and he studied what he could see there. Then he nodded and lay back on the bed.

It was not that he particularly wanted to. But he knew—he could see from the eyes—that this was something Harry needed to do.

Harry removed his clothes in a leisurely fashion, not using the charm. Then he spent some time working over Draco’s chest, tracing the lines of muscles and his nipples with a patient tongue. Draco bucked, and worked hard not to grasp Harry’s head and hold it in place. He remained still, compliant, letting Harry choose what to do next. It felt good, of course.

Harry took off his trousers, and after a hesitation, as if he were not quite sure what to do when confronted by a naked man instead of a naked woman, rubbed his cheeks gently over Draco’s inner thighs. The pants came next; Draco heard Harry make a slight sound of discomfort when he touched them, and knew they were already wet from his precome.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

Harry swallowed for a moment, and then looked up at him with a smile. “Nothing to be sorry for,” he said, and gently licked at Draco’s erection, nuzzled into his groin, and proceeded to spend some time exploring.

Draco let his legs fall open, and gasped and panted. He couldn’t draw breath for any deeper sound than that, because every time he attempted it, Harry would try something new, and all the air would leave him again. His hands curled like crabs at his sides, and his head turned restlessly on the pillow, as Harry went back and forth, slowly, from his cock to his balls, and bathed every bit of skin between his legs with licks and gentle bites.

When he finally took Draco’s cock in his mouth and began to suck, Draco made a tremendous effort and heaved himself up to look down. Harry had his head bowed, but he looked up when he felt Draco move, and his eyes were a brilliant green, his cheeks hollowed. As Draco watched, his mouth moved into a gentle smile.

That had _never_ happened.

Draco came, a long-drawn-out, warm orgasm, without the burning heat it had always had previously. Harry coughed, but didn’t complain, and Draco finally flopped back down, trembling.

“I assume,” Harry murmured at last, sitting up and beginning to remove his own clothes, “that you liked that?”

Draco lunged at him, caught him, and laid him down on the bed by way of answer. Harry laughed at him, but it stopped when Draco’s hand found his right nipple and twisted it. He hissed instead, and the unnatural brightness of his face drowned in arousal.

Draco was determined to make this the best Harry had ever felt. He fixed his attention carefully on his mate and let out a modified burst of the allure he’d perfected on Pansy. He knew it made every inch of her skin sensitive and pushed her want into need, and her need into desperation; it should work even better on Harry, the one who was actually intended to receive it.

In the pause that followed, he wondered if he’d overdone it. Perhaps, since he didn’t like becoming a pool of mush from the claiming mark and the wings, Harry wouldn’t like this, either.

“What was that?” Harry practically growled, and Draco’s fears vanished. “Do that _again_.”

Confident now, Draco did, and Harry twitched and twisted on the bed, pulling at his shirt with clumsy hands, frantic to have it off. Whatever secret worries or fears he had nourished had melted. He lunged up, bit Draco’s lips in a fierce kiss, and tried to force his hand to push into his trousers.

Draco slid them off smoothly, then his pants, and gripped Harry’s erection. Harry bucked at him, as eager as though he’d never felt shy or embarrassed of his own vulnerability.

“I want your mouth,” he said. “ _Now_.”

Draco thought his knees must have melted as he fell down, weak with desire. Last month he’d seen Harry in the mood to give; now he saw him in the mood to take, and if it wasn’t actually just as inspiring, Draco would have been hard-pressed to say what was the difference between them.

He used more than his mouth, as much use as he did put that to. One hand held Harry’s right hip to the bed; the other had picked up his wand and cast a lubrication charm on two of his fingers, then a cleaning spell on Harry. Harry made a startled sound, like a stepped-on cat, when he felt it.

“What—“ he began.

Draco slid his fingers gently down to Harry’s arse and pressed on it. Harry froze. For a moment, they stayed like that, while Harry looked another fear in the eye and Draco sucked temptingly.

Then Harry said softly, “Yes. I’ll—try it.”

Draco rewarded him with another blast of warm breath and an equal blast of allure, which helped Harry to relax while Draco gently slipped a finger inside him. He spasmed, almost, with vigor, and Draco waited until he had relaxed again before coordinating the movements of his finger and his tongue.

Harry cried out in pleasure, overwhelmed, taken, abandoned, and his legs spread further open in unmistakable encouragement. Draco snarled aloud in chorus with the Veela’s mental sound, waited a few moments just to be sure his own enthusiasm wouldn’t hurt Harry, and added a second finger.

Either he’d touched Harry’s prostate, or Harry simply enjoyed the feeling of fingers inside him for itself, because at that moment he came. Draco swallowed hungrily, and carefully withdrew his fingers, petting Harry for a moment before he slid up his body to claim another kiss.

Harry grinned up at him, relaxed, calm, sated, and stretched his neck to capture a second kiss when Draco drew back for some air. Draco draped himself half atop his mate and nuzzled his neck. The claiming mark flared bright silver, and he licked at it, urging it into brighter contrast with Harry’s skin.

Harry closed his eyes and lay with him in silence for some minutes, his hands smoothing up and down Draco’s back. Then he kissed his cheek and said, “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

Draco sighed and rolled over, watching idly as Harry gathered up his clothing. “Will you tell me what made you act like that?” he asked.

Harry hesitated. Then he glanced over his shoulder, and his eyes, though still cautious, were without that tight guard Draco hated so much, which had shut him off from his mate’s thoughts and feelings.

“Not right now,” he said. “I’m not in love with you yet, Draco, but you’re—you’re a friend, at the very least.” He licked his lips. “I’m confused, still, but less confused about some things than I was. I’ll tell you soon. I just need time to think about it for a while.” Another lip-lick, which made Draco fight against the impulse to pull him back down. “Let’s say that I’m thinking about what I want, but I’m not quite clear on what it is.”

Draco’s voice was warm and helpless in his own ears. “That’s wonderful, Harry. Take all the time you need.”

Harry grinned at him, gave him a lazy salute and a nod, and took the path out of the gardens. Draco watched him go before he bothered to stir and release the glamour that had hidden Pansy.

She looked a bit like a lost puppy when she peered up at him. “I’m the only one you’ll ever love, right, Draco?” she asked.

Draco stroked her cheek with one finger, leaving a shimmering smear of lubrication behind. “Of course, darling.”

*

Harry’s tension had not quite returned when he made his way back to Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. It was hard to be as tightly coiled, after sex like that, as he’d been when he went to the Manor.

He fixed his gaze on the letter that lay on the table in the center of his study, and had caused all these problems. His mouth tightened, but he forced himself to go to it, smooth it out, and read it again.

_August 20th_

_Harry:_

_The meeting with Malfoy didn’t go well. He’s still determined to pursue you, and he doesn’t really care what it costs you. You’ll have to be the one to break this off, because he won’t._

_Please, don’t go to him the next time he asks. I’ve talked with Fleur, and she says that, at the stage he’s in, he doesn’t need your touch every month, only every other. He’ll suffer, but he won’t die. Please, Harry, if you love me, show it this way._

_Love,_

_Ginny._

Harry closed his eyes.

He loved her, he still did, but he recognized manipulation when he saw it, and he recognized someone’s attempt to force him into a corner, too.

He’d gone to Draco immediately, on fire to prove that he _could_ and _would_ give him what he needed despite Ginny’s attempt to force him to stop, to make him break his word. It had become more than that when he arrived, of course. It always seemed to lately, when he was with Draco.

 _Malfoy_ , he thought, but there was no bite to the word.

He still didn’t know what he wanted; it might not be what Draco offered at all. But he had accepted, at least, that his marriage could never be the same again. The woman he had married, the woman he thought he knew, would not have written these words. She’d only asked; she’d done it for what she probably thought was a good reason.

But things had still changed between them.

Harry sat down and wrote his reply. It wasn’t long; it didn’t need to be. Then he called Hedwig and gave her a few strokes on the head the letter.

He stood, watching Hedwig fly away, and wondered what Ginny would make of the letter when she opened the envelope and read the words inside.

_I’m sorry. You’re asking too much of me._

_Harry._


	16. September (Part One)

Harry growled and tried to wrench his mind away from brooding on the latest letter Ginny had sent him, so that he stood a chance of focusing on his latest interrogation of Alecto Carrow. He’d learned nothing new, but Kingsley was, as yet, reluctant to hand the former Death Eaters over to the Wizengamot for sentencing. He thought they could still learn something from them, if they only, as he put it to Harry, _concentrated_.

But Harry couldn’t concentrate.

Ralph came into the office, quietly nudging the door open with his shoulder—his hands were fully occupied with a cup of tea and a sandwich—and then nudging it shut again. He and the other Aurors of the Hermes Corps had learned the hard way not to startle Harry with loud noises in the past few weeks.

Harry stared at the parchment in front of him. He had to describe Alecto’s nonsensical mumbling and murmuring in terms that would make it sound substantial, impressive, illuminating.

Instead, words swam into his head.

_Harry, please listen to me. You can’t know how much it alarms me that you’re listening to Malfoy. I feel like I’m losing you forever, and I would give anything to hang on. I do love you. I won’t turn myself into a sacrifice for your sake, a helpless pawn whose husband is free to do whatever he wishes, but I do love you._

Harry swallowed once and determinedly wrote a few words on the report. He had to consider what he wanted, especially given that he hadn’t seen Draco in some days now and the once automatic idea that he wanted him to be part of his life had retreated. Of course, he hadn’t seen Ginny in longer than that, and there was no reason that he needed to give in to what she wanted, either.

He wished there was someone he could go to for advice, though Draco would probably tell him that this was the kind of choice he needed to make for himself.

“Harry?”

Grateful for any distraction at the moment, Harry turned in his chair.

Ralph had put his tea and sandwich on his desk, and he examined Harry over his clasped hands. Then he said, “Look, mate, I’ll be forthright with you. No one knows what’s happened to you, but it’s affecting your work, and _our_ ability to work with you. If it’s something you can’t help, tell us now, and we’ll be happy to help you. If it’s something that you _can_ change, for God’s sake, do something and change it.”

“How much of that speech did you copy from Tonks?” Harry asked.

Ralph flushed, then cleared his throat. “Most of it,” he said. “I—well, Harry, _damn_ it, what _is_ bothering you, beyond the separation from Ginny? I saw what you looked like in the days after that. It isn’t the same this time, but sweet Merlin, you’re snappish.”

“I know,” Harry said, and sighed. “Look. I still can’t tell you everything about this.” Ginny had given him permission, but Draco had sent him a letter with several key words underlined, so that Harry would understand that under _no_ circumstances did he give his permission for Harry to reveal the full truth to Ralph. It would have to happen at some point, but Draco wanted to be in control when it did. “Let’s just say that it involves the consequences of a magical accident, and no one’s happy right now.”

“But can you improve your temper?” Ralph seemed bolder now that the initial difficulty was past, and he tore into his sandwich and spoke aggressively through a mouthful of bread and corned beef. “Enough that you don’t disrupt the day-to-day functioning of the Department, at least.”

Harry took a deep breath and rubbed his forehead. The scar felt strange beneath his fingers. Sometimes he barely remembered that he had it, and then someone else would stare at him and whisper about Voldemort—never saying his name, of course, because that was a fear the wizarding world had never lost—and he would remember the war and—

And none of this helped him.

He gave Ralph a tired smile and said, “Yes. I’m trying to make a choice. Once I’ve made it, I’ll be calmer.” _Though not necessarily happier._

Ralph snorted into his food. “A choice between Ginny and someone else?” he asked, when he could breathe again.

Harry scowled at him for being perceptive.

“It’s no choice, no contest.” Ralph took a deep swallow of his tea. “If I were married to her, there’s no one I would rather look at for the rest of my life, or wake up next to. It pains me to do this, but because I am naturally selfless, I’ll give you some advice for free, Harry. Choose her. She’s the only one who ever made you smile regularly.” He leaned forwards. “It’s perfectly obvious that something happened to you during the war that took away most of your capacity to be happy. And if Ginny is the person who cheers you up…can you really give that up?”

“Maybe it’s not enough anymore.” Harry shrugged at him and turned back to his report. He really did need to finish it, and as much as he liked Ralph, trying to listen to him when he didn’t know the full toll of the situation wouldn’t help.

But there was someone who _did_ , and who, even if she was more on Ginny’s side, had proven that she could listen with sympathy to Harry.

Harry smiled and relaxed. When he returned home, he’d owl Fleur, and see if she could meet with him.

*

“Are you pleased with me, Draco?”

Draco smiled and lightly touched Pansy’s hair. She crouched at his feet, holding out a large stack of wizarding photographs that all too clearly showed him and Harry entwined on a bed, moving around each other like hungry sharks. “Of course I am,” he said. “You’ve done very well, darling.” He Levitated the photos into the air with a nonverbal spell and then cast _Incendio_. They burned in seconds, so strong was the heat of his anger.

“I’m so glad,” Pansy said, and leaned her head against his knee. “So glad,” she repeated, with a faint sob catching in her voice.

Draco watched her from half-lidded eyes. The books on Veela and the proper exercise of their powers had been right. Pansy showed all the symptoms of someone Veela-stricken. The only cure would be for her to remove herself completely from Draco’s presence and never have any contact with him again for the rest of her life. She could still take revenge if he let her go too soon, of course, so Draco would keep her near him and bend her mind a bit more.

It wouldn’t damage her completely. It would embarrass her horribly in public and leave her longing for him—neither of which Draco minded—but she could still lead a sane life when apart from him.

It wasn’t, Draco told himself as he reached down and helped her to her feet, as if he were doing anything _wrong_. He now suspected, from the reading he’d done, that Pansy had succumbed in part to the Veela allure even before he turned it fully on her. She never should have moved so suddenly and openly, nor been so stupid as to tell him of the existence of those pictures. She should either have tried a subtler threat that would unnerve him or simply published the photos without the excuse of blackmail.

But her actions matched perfectly with the books’ description of someone drunk on too much allure, determined to possess the Veela she was drawn to even if it resulted in danger for herself. Remembering some of the dangerous and stupid things he’d seen people at Hogwarts do when the Veela girls had visited from Beauxbatons, Draco supposed he couldn’t really be surprised.

Of course, Pansy had not yet completely lost her mind, though she spent a good deal of her time crouching at Draco’s feet and no longer asked him for sex. She still reacted with jealousy to any mention of Harry, and Draco hadn’t persuaded her to tell him where every single cache of photos was; she spoke of wanting the ones she still had as “mementoes.” A few more weeks, then, before he could end this completely.

But it was not far away.

Draco stroked her hair, and smiled.

*

“’arry.” A genuine smile lit Fleur’s face as she opened the door of the small, neat house she shared with Bill in the wizarding part of Calais for him. “I am glad you could come ‘ere. A moment?” She waited for Harry’s nod, then turned and called into the house in French, apparently telling an elf to bring Roxane.

Harry looked around. Fleur considered it barbarity to live in a house in which one could see the walls. Every single inch of them seemed covered—with photos of herself, Bill, Roxane, and other silver-haired people Harry assumed were members of her family; with odd but harmless objects of stone and wood that Bill had accumulated in the course of his curse-breaking; with rare butterflies and tiny animals like miniature dragons pinned under glass. Harry had been here before, but he never seemed to come to the end of what there was to see.

A pair of small, pounding footsteps hurried up the entrance hall, and then Harry knelt to catch Roxane as she launched herself at him from several feet away. He let out a little _oomph_ as she landed, then staggered to regain his balance. She clung like a starfish, as usual, pressing her face into his neck and saying something that might have been his name in a soft voice.

Harry stroked Roxane’s hair and looked up to see Fleur reappear at the end of the hall, shaking her head. She said a few words in French; Roxane only clung more tightly to Harry. Fleur sighed and motioned him on.

“Bill is not ‘ere,” she said, when they sat on two pale chairs in the middle of a pale room dazzling with light through wide windows. The walls didn’t help add to the pale impression, however, since they were covered with photographs. A house-elf appeared with tea on a small silver plate, and Harry, an old hand at this, managed to shift Roxane so that he could balance her on one side of his lap while he drank. Roxane accepted a small confection the house-elf handed her, so covered with sugar that Harry couldn’t tell what it was supposed to be, and began eating it with small, neat bites. “I did not think you would wish to ‘ave ‘im ‘ear this.”

“No,” Harry admitted, facing Fleur. She sat with her head on one side, studying him intently. “How do I say that I’m cheating on his sister and want to know if I should continue?”

Fleur smiled, but her eyes were so intent that it looked less kindly than intimidating. “You ‘ave continued to visit Draco, then?”

“Yes,” said Harry, wondering when she’d come to think of him as Draco. Roxane finished her sweet and tucked herself even closer to his side. Harry shifted his hold on her so that he could stroke her hair again. It slid over his fingers, so soft that it made him have to close his eyes for a moment. He wondered if he should be grateful or not that he and Ginny hadn’t managed to have children yet.

_Yet, or ever?_

“That is good,” said Fleur softly. “I believe that eet needs to ‘appen, ‘arry.”

Harry frowned and opened his eyes. “I don’t understand why,” he said honestly. “After all, if we’d managed to hold to the terms of the original bargain, then nothing would have changed.”

Fleur smiled, and Harry was startled to catch a glimpse of the bright silver light in her eyes that he’d sometimes seen in Draco’s when the Veela side was uppermost in him. “You believe so?” she breathed. “You think that you can ‘ave shared a bed with someone else and not come to think of ‘im, to dream of ‘im?”

“I would certainly _try_ not to,” Harry began.

Fleur lifted an imperious hand, and Harry fell silent to let her speak. She had an affectionate smile on her face, at least, so he didn’t think she would say anything too terrible.

“Many wizards think that you can control attraction,” she said, “even as they say, aloud, that you cannot. They do not like eet when they find themselves attracted to someone—ah—inappropriate. They make fidelity to one’s spouse not a matter of body and soul, but a matter of ‘eart, too, as though thinking about someone else meant the same thing as cheating.” She made a soft disgusted sound. “And they live in a world where magic often changes such things, where there are Unforgivable Curses and love potions and magical creatures to tell them that they are not all-powerful. _Ah!_ Such foolishness.

“Sometimes things simply ‘appen. Sometimes you cannot change them.” She leaned forwards, and Harry wasn’t sure he could have looked away from her at Draco, were he in the room. “No one likes to ‘ear this, ‘arry. But eet is _true_. Perhaps some people could have stayed exactly the same and been the same at the end of a year. But that you could not is no shame. What would be a shame is lying to Ginny, and yourself, and ‘ _im_. You are ‘ _uman_. That is all.”

“Maybe that’s what gave me trouble,” Harry confessed to Roxane’s forehead. He could feel a weight slowly lifting off his soul, as though he’d been trapped under a fallen soul and someone had finally Levitated the wall pinning him down. “I thought I should be more than human. I’ve been able to be for so long. Bad things have happened to me, but I lived with them.”

“Ah,” said Fleur. He looked up to see that she had calmed a bit, her face creased in a gentle smile. “And this demands that you do more than _live_ with eet. This calls for you to engage with eet, to live _in_ eet.”

“Yes, exactly.” Harry flexed his wrists. “And I suppose you can’t tell me whether you think I ought to choose Ginny or Draco?”

He meant it as a joke, but Fleur answered quietly, “I ‘ave spoken to many people mated to Veela, ‘arry. I look at one every time I glance at my ‘usband. You ‘ave that look, of someone who ‘as already chosen.”

Harry swallowed, and carefully leaned back in the chair. “I don’t know if that’s what I want.”

“I think you do.”

Harry snorted, his defensiveness rising again. “And what am I supposed to say to Ginny? That I gave up on her without a fight? That I—“

“What ‘ave you done these months, but fight?” Fleur cut him off calmly. “If you ‘ave chosen, it will be more truthful to speak to ‘er about eet. I will be sorry to see her ‘urt, yes, but eet is inevitable at this point, and if she knows that she ‘as no chance of winning you back, she can ‘eal sooner.”

“I just don’t know if I’m ready for that,” Harry muttered. He could feel a crawling disgust in his belly, and though he knew it was disgust mostly with himself, he couldn’t bring himself to say outright that he chose Draco. He didn’t even _like_ Draco a good portion of the time, still. How could he want to spend the rest of his life with him? And thanks to the consequences of a full bonding, it would have to be that. Harry had done some reading of his own. Once he had sex with Draco—

 _Malfoy_ —

—he would be impotent with anyone else, as would Draco. So he should consider this more carefully than he had even the initial decision about what he could do to save the other wizard’s life.

Maybe he needed to see him again, and visit Ginny, as well. Maybe that would help him make up his mind.

And since he _hadn’t_ given her a satisfactory answer to her last letter, and because he also suspected it would be the harder task, he should visit Ginny first.

“Thank you, Fleur,” he said, and put down his teacup on the tray the house-elf held ready. “I don’t think you’re right about my final choice, because I have no idea if having Draco permanently as a part of my life would make me happy, but you’ve helped calm me and clear my head.”

Fleur gave a slight nod. “Good.” She held her arms out for Roxane, who had fallen asleep, and stirred only to murmur an unintelligible word as her mother took her. “And, ‘arry?”

He paused on his way out of the room to look at her.

“You are a good man,” Fleur said quietly. “I know that.” She kissed her daughter’s hair. “But there is more than one person’s ’appiness at stake ‘ere. Choose wisely, do not delay too long, and choose what your ‘eart thinks is right, rather than something that will ‘urt no one. There is no choice like that, not now.”

*

Draco chuckled as he read Harry’s letter again, and leaned back against the wall behind him, almost tempted to spread his wings here and stretch them, despite the questions he would have to answer from his teammates. Harry had said that he wanted to talk to Draco tomorrow, in the Phoenix’s Nest. Perhaps he had heard from his wife or his sister-in-law that that was the same restaurant they had met in, perhaps not. If it was coincidence, that only made it better.

Draco had determined to wait for Harry to request his presence. Pressing him would only make him run faster and farther, at this point. And respect for his free will would coax him in more than making demands, the way that the little Weasley was probably doing.

He had grown impatient, of course. Who wouldn’t? The Veela’s presence weighed like a boulder on the back of his mind sometimes, staining every daydream he had. But it had not surpassed his capacity to endure, nor his silent promise to himself not to let Harry control every nuance of their interaction.

And in the end, the risk had paid off.

“Malfoy! You have a _reason_ , I suppose, for dawdling about on the ground when the rest of the team is on their brooms?”

Draco faced Branwen with a small smirk. Usually she could bring his mood crashing with a few words; she wasn’t particularly witty, but she had a loud, barking voice that made it impossible to concentrate on whatever he was thinking of. Now, however, he could not mind even her.

“I just received a letter from my wife,” he said, with a straight face, save for the widening of his eyes and a slight blush. “You know how much in love we are. I couldn’t resist contemplating it one more time.”

Branwen stared at him. Then she snorted. “You’re taking me for someone who hasn’t met your wife.” She clapped her hands briskly. “Now, on your broom, and perhaps I’ll consider not making you fly in the middle of the storm coming this afternoon.”

Draco went to fetch his broom. Branwen had disliked Pansy on sight, of course, the way Pansy had her. They both wanted to control everyone around them, and consequently they couldn’t coexist in the same room without entering into arguments. That worked to his advantage, now, as did the streak of games during which he’d played brilliantly. Branwen was resistant to manipulation that attempted to get on her good side, because she didn’t have one, but not to honest talent and to what she would think was sympathy due Draco for his awful marriage.

Draco intended to have an intense match, and to write a letter accepting the invitation to Harry tonight. Let him wait at least a few hours for a reply, anxiously scanning the sky for Draco’s owl. It was only fair.

*

Harry tightened his fingers on the cup of tea for a moment. Then he put it down on the table and folded his hands behind his head. What he _really_ didn’t want to do was give Ginny any idea that he was nervous.

_Except, of course, that you are, and she knows you well enough that she’s probably going to sense it._

Harry swallowed twice, and cast _Tempus_ , even though he’d done that only five minutes ago and thus knew perfectly well what the time was. Five minutes until she was supposed to arrive, of course. Harry chewed his lip and faced the fireplace again, glad, for once, that he’d never bothered to redecorate the house or make it more cheerful. There was no place more comfortable than the kitchen, and thus he wouldn’t be tempted to put the confrontation off by inviting Ginny into another room.

The fire flared, and turned green. Harry drew a deep breath and tapped his foot against the chair, then made himself stop. He didn’t _know_ that Fleur was right. It could be that this confrontation would heal the mistakes that lay between him and Ginny, and end with her agreeing to move back in with him.

 _You know it won’t_.

Harry shushed the voice that had no right to be talking in his head, and moved forwards to take Ginny’s arm and help her up so that she didn’t stumble coming out of the fireplace. She smiled at him, but drew back as soon as she could, retreating delicately to the other side of the table to put some space between them. Harry found himself just as glad. The film of sweat and dirt that seemed to appear on his fingers whenever he touched anyone but Draco was particularly strong with Ginny; he had to fight the temptation to Summon a cloth and wipe his hands on it.

“How are you?” he asked.

Ginny faced him in silence for a long moment. Her face was thin and pale, like a seashell. Her bright eyes looked washed of color, as though someone had scooped all the emotion out of them, and her hands opened and closed in what looked like habitual nervous motions—though she’d never shown them when she lived with him. She answered in a voice that did not tremble, however. “Well enough. Do you have some tea for me?”

Harry Summoned the cup he’d set aside earlier, and filled it with tea that had stood hot under a warming charm. Ginny murmured thanks and sipped it, never taking her eyes from him.

Harry wondered idly who would sit down first, then decided that he should do the honors. He _wasn’t_ afraid of his wife. He _didn’t_ need to be on his feet to face her. He drew his chair out and settled into it.

Ginny stayed standing.

Harry folded his hands behind his head again and cleared his throat loudly, which seemed akin to smashing a delicate, beautiful thing. “I asked you here today to—to see what would happen when we spoke, really. Owling each other isn’t the same thing.” He paused for a moment, to see what she would say, but she evidently had nothing prepared. He soldiered forwards. “You’ve seen the mark on my neck. You know that Draco keeps asking more and more of me. Given those circumstances, do you want to fight for this, or do you want to—“

“Harry.”

He shut up. Ginny put her cup down on the table with precise movements, then leaned forwards and stared at him.

“This doesn’t address the difficult things between us,” she said. “You know it does not. There are certain things I need to know, and I suspect you must want to know them equally badly.”

The back of Harry’s neck prickled, the way it did when he entered a battlefield and could not immediately tell where his enemies hid. He inclined his head. He did not think he could have looked away from her if he tried.

“Why did you go to Malfoy when I sent you a letter asking you not to?” Ginny smoothed her fingers up and down her palm, never looking away from him, either. Harry thought she must have hidden her emotions better, however, because he had never felt so raw and flayed in his life. “You knew he wouldn’t die this time. Tell me, have you become addicted to his touch?”

“I went because you had no right to ask me to stay away from him,” Harry answered, his voice rough.

Ginny twisted her wedding ring.

“You have a right to ask many things of me,” Harry said. “But not—that. Not to leave another human being in pain when there was something I could have done to prevent it.”

“Not even when leaving another human being in pain would have meant being faithful to your wife?” Ginny asked, her voice rising just slightly. “Not when you couldn’t rescue him or give him sanctuary or stop him from bleeding, but had to have _sex_ with him to stop the pain?”

Harry licked his lips and took a moment to breathe before he answered. “Not even then.”

Ginny closed her eyes. Then she said, “I always did say that what I loved best about you was your ability to do the right thing.”

Harry nodded, even though he knew she didn’t see it.

“But this—“ Ginny opened her eyes. They shimmered with tears. Harry quelled the instinctive impulse to go to her. This had to play out a certain way, and unless they both made the effort to cross the distance between them, it couldn’t be crossed. “This is too much. _Why_ are you doing this, Harry? What makes him so important, so special, to you?” She exhaled sharply. “Are you in love with him?”

 _Be honest. Search as deeply as you can_. That impulse made Harry restrain his immediate negative answer.

“I don’t know,” he said.

Ginny smiled bitterly. She might have looked terrible, an avenging fury, except that her eyes were still full of tears. “A fine thing,” she said, “to destroy what we have for the sake of an uncertainty.”

 _Unless we both make the effort to cross the distance between us, it can’t be crossed_. Harry supposed the moment had come for him to be as honest as possible; Ginny had made all the effort in the conversation so far.

“I can’t just ignore this anymore,” he began, carefully, feeling his way forwards as though he walked on dragons’ eggs. “I can’t forget what’s happened in the last few months, as much as I want to at times. And those things—well, I _do_ have a bond connecting me to Draco. Not the Veela bond,” he added hastily, when he saw Ginny’s eyes widening. “But an emotional bond.”

“It’s so fragile,” Ginny whispered. “So little, compared to what we have. Isn’t it, Harry?”

 _Be honest_. “No,” Harry said. “No, Ginny, I don’t think it is.”

She closed her eyes and swallowed with a thick, damp sound. “And why?” she asked. “What does he _mean_ to you, that you want to give up everything that we have for him?”

“I don’t know that that’s what I want yet,” Harry corrected. “But I think that’s what probably will happen, unless something changes in the course of this conversation.”

He felt so strange. No weight had lifted off his soul, the way it had while he talked with Fleur, but at least _something_ had changed. Maybe it was more like a frozen river breaking up, he thought. He didn’t know that things would end up better than they had been, he didn’t know where the flood would carry him, but things were moving, at last.

Ginny laughed, and then stopped, probably because even she could hear how horrible the sound was. “So you might end our marriage, only to find out that you ended it for nothing,” she said.

“Not nothing,” said Harry. “At least I’ll have the knowledge that neither you nor Draco are right for me.”

“If this hadn’t happened,” Ginny persisted, eyes still shut, “we could have lived out the rest of our lives in happiness.”

“Contentment, at least,” Harry said, watching Ginny and thinking of how honest they had been—except that he was always the one who had to raise the topic and speak the secret first—and how happy they had been—except much of that had ended when they couldn’t have sex any longer—and how attached they had been to each other—except that seemed to have withered the moment he gave Draco any sort of serious attention. “Yes, I think we could have.”

“If it hadn’t happened—“

“But it did.”

Ginny shook her head violently. “Why should just one thing _change_ everything?”

“I really wish I did know that,” said Harry, and he leaned across the table to take her hand, because by this time he could and he thought she needed it. “But if it hadn’t been this, maybe it would have been something else. There’s no way to _know_ , Gin. This is what life brought us, and that’s what we’ll have to live with.”

She ripped her hand away from his and turned her back on him. Harry remained still, though, because he didn’t think she would appreciate him approaching her now. He watched her shoulders shake in silence, and licked his lips. His eyes stung, but he didn’t weep. The feeling of relief and release and freedom was still too great.

“I love you,” she said.

Harry closed his eyes. “I know. I love you, too. But it isn’t enough any more.”

“What if I had never asked you to abandon Malfoy?” Ginny twisted her head to look at him. “I can take it back, Harry.” Her voice had grown frantic. “I _know_ you would never want to hurt someone else. It’s one of the things I love about you. Please. Will it be better if I said I didn’t mean it?”

“No,” Harry said, “because you did mean it at the time.” He stood now and crossed to her, taking her hands in his. “And if you said that now, it would be a betrayal of yourself. You were right when you said to me in June that you deserve something better than a husband who always does the right thing at a great expense to you—someone who’s not self-righteous or a martyr. I hope you do find him, Gin. You deserve to be happy.”

Ginny whispered, “You’re not a martyr all the time.”

“But enough to upset you.” Harry gently rubbed her back. “I don’t think it’s something I can change as long as I’m still married to you.” He kissed her cheek. “It would always be between us, and so would the memory of what I shared with Draco in his bed. I’m sorry, Ginny, I really am. This is the end.”

She held onto his arm for a moment, tight enough to make impressive dents in his skin. Then she slowly loosened her fingers and pulled away. She walked to the Floo without looking back, and vanished into the flames with a single call of, “The Burrow!”

It was only when Harry looked away from the fireplace—it took him several minutes—that he realized she had left her wedding ring on the table. He hesitated for a long moment, then took off his own and laid it beside hers.

It was ridiculous, how much better that simple act made him feel.


	17. September (Part Two)

Draco waited in a private room at the back of the Phoenix’s Nest, a much more spacious one than Weasley had managed to secure. He had specified a large table, a meal full of delicacies that Harry probably hadn’t ever tasted, and a set of linked wineglasses they could share with one another. There was also a large bed in one corner, but Draco had hidden that under a glamour. If Harry wanted to use it, they’d use it. Otherwise, best to pretend that sex had not been uppermost in his mind.

Besides, it really wasn’t. The chance to see Harry again was.

One of the staff showed Harry in a few minutes later. Draco stood when he saw him, and claimed his hand for a kiss. He noticed something different as he ran his lips over Harry’s skin, making him shiver, but couldn’t confirm it until he lifted his head.

Harry didn’t wear his wedding ring.

A pulse of such explosive joy moved up through Draco’s chest that he thought it would make him faint when it reached his head. He licked his lips and managed to step away from Harry with a sharp effort. He motioned him to the other side of the table. “Shall we begin the meal?”

Harry uttered a frustrated sound and grabbed him around the waist, pulling him in close so that he could kiss Draco’s mouth.

Draco went stiff in utter surprise; he couldn’t remember Harry being this aggressive. Before he could recover, Harry had flicked his wand and removed the glamour charm on the bed.

“Knew it was there for a reason,” Harry whispered to him, and started to shove him backwards.

Draco went willingly, breathless with need, feeling the Veela stir in the back of his head and send daydreams like bubbles skittering through his head. He wanted to see what would happen with Harry in charge.

Harry didn’t waste time. A few waves of his wand sent their clothes flying to the other side of the room, and then he pushed Draco flat on his back and climbed on top of him. He groaned, a sound of surprise as much as of want, and murmured, “God, I missed this,” before he went back to biting Draco’s jaw.

Draco curved an arm up around Harry’s neck and tilted his head back encouragingly, letting those eager lips reach anywhere they could. He panted, but he wasn’t lost in the same half-angry arousal that seemed to be consuming Harry. He had a somewhat clear head, and what he knew was that they’d reached a turning point. If Harry had rounded it first, he was at least intent on dragging Draco after him.

Harry groaned again, but this time it sounded more frustrated than anything else. He pulled back and demanded, “What are you waiting for? Touch me.”

Draco ran a slow hand up Harry’s chest. Harry grunted softly, and lowered his head into Draco’s neck. Draco tilted his head again, this time for a kiss, and lifted his legs, wrapping them around Harry’s waist and, incidentally, bringing their erections together. He made sure to have an expression of complete surprise on his face the next time Harry looked, as if that had been an accident.

 _If_ Harry looked. At the moment, he was slack-jawed and shut-eyed in pleasure. “ _Oh_ ,” he said throatily, and bucked his hips, forcing them together and Draco into his own rush of dizziness. “That’s—that’s— _oh_. Mmm.” And then he rolled himself over in a motion Draco hadn’t known was possible, and began to rock up and down on top of him insistently.

Draco helped as much as he could from his limited position, shifting teasingly, caressing Harry’s spine, now and then moving a leg so that it looped higher or lower and adjusted their posture. Harry barely spoke recognizable words, but murmured an endless array of half-ones into his ear as he bucked and twisted and pushed and rubbed and in a variety of other ways tried to take his pleasure.

The Veela was awake and vibrating like a plucked harp now, so happy that Draco couldn’t even understand its dreams. And then he felt Harry jerk violently against him and ceased to care about that.

For the first time, Harry wasn’t holding back, and his letting go wasn’t a result of Draco’s using the claiming mark or the wings on him. Instead, he simply wanted to have sex, and he cried out as if he didn’t care who heard. He slammed his hips into Draco’s several times, his orgasm the most important thing in the world to him, and then slumped down, breathing heavily.

Only for a moment, of course. Then he rolled off Draco, propped himself on his side, and reached for his erection.

Draco clasped his own hand around Harry’s, and they stroked in time. Draco didn’t watch Harry pulling at him, however, even though it had to be one of his favorite sights. He couldn’t look away from Harry’s green eyes, so intense on him that the gaze physically hurt.

Just before he came, Harry leaned over and kissed him, driving his lips into his teeth.

Draco shuddered and soaked his own stomach, adding to the puddle of come Harry had deposited there. His limbs still vibrated from the aftershocks, and as he lay there, trying to catch his breath, he felt a deep smugness. Harry might pretend they meant nothing to each other but a quick opportunity for a grope, but the lie was there in the way he’d kissed Draco.

The way he was still kissing him, as a matter of fact, lazily toying with his hair and nipping at his jaw.

Draco leaned up and kissed him back, more than happy to join with him in equal partnership again, more than happy to wait a moment to cast the cleaning charms, more than happy about everything.

*

Harry couldn’t stop smiling in satisfaction, and now and then peeking at Draco to check that the bites he’d given him, small, rich red marks up and down his jaw and throat, were still in place. He’d come in wanting sex, the way he’d often come home from work when he still lived with Ginny, and he’d had it without hesitating and constantly asking permission first, without being persuaded or compelled into it by the Veela or Malfoy’s own need, and without more than a slight feeling of guilt about the bond he’d shared with Ginny until recently.

He felt more relaxed than he had in weeks. Of course, now that he thought back on it, the source of his bad moods seemed obvious. He usually sated himself with Ginny when he felt like that, and she, as strong and as fond of sex as he was, had proven herself a willing partner. Harry didn’t have her anymore, though, and he’d hesitated to take such liberties with Draco.

Until today.

And judging by the heavy-lidded look Draco gave him, and the way he insisted on feeding Harry everything—even a plate of fish so flaky it crumbled apart on his fork before it could make the necessary journey to Harry’s mouth—he’d enjoyed it as well.

“You’ve spoken with Weasley?” he murmured into Harry’s ear as they sipped wine from an odd pair of connected glasses, which really worked best when they hooked their wrists together.

“Yes,” Harry said. He took a moment to enjoy the shiver that traveled through him as Draco breathed on the fine hairs inside his ear. “And it’s over. She even accepts that it’s over, though she wasn’t happy about it.”

Draco paused a moment, eyes widening. Harry knew he’d noticed the absence of his wedding ring, but he supposed that the other man hadn’t had much time to think about that. He laughed softly.

The next moment, Draco had dug a hand into his hair and was trying to push him flat—except that he couldn’t seem to decide between the table, crowded though it still was with food, or the floor. Harry lifted his arms and wrapped them around Draco, laughing again, more than willing to have another go. His cock twitched in interest, and he twisted his head to find Draco’s lips, delight and a sense of heady freedom coursing through him.

He had Auror instincts to thank—and specifically Kingsley’s training—that, distracted as he was, he still heard the distinct click of a locking spell.

Harry felt his power flare. He rolled, shoving Draco to the floor beneath him, and kicked the leg of the table, which knocked his wand off the top and sent it towards him. He caught it in a moment and forced himself not to think about the fact that he was fighting naked. It didn’t _matter_. He’d done harder things.

He stood, keeping himself between Draco and the door, and saw the cloaked figure he’d encountered two times already, this time with another wizard behind him, also heavily cloaked. Harry narrowed his eyes. “You need help to handle me this time?” he asked mildly. He wasn’t surprised that it had taken his enemy this long to recover from his bone-shattering curse, nor that he had come back anyway. He _had_ seemed to be the persistent type.

The second wizard didn’t speak, but the nearer one pushed his hood back, revealing the face of a man Harry had thought was dead. He blinked a moment. Mulciber had died in the failed raid on Azkaban, in which Narcissa Malfoy had also perished.

 _No_ , Harry realized, as Mulciber held up his wand, _you thought he perished. That Conflagration Curse they called down at the last was so intense that it prevented them from taking count of the bodies. Mulciber could have disguised himself as someone else, or even as a corpse, and escaped._

But Mulciber, though powerful enough to hurl the curses that had come at Harry in June and August, was in no way powerful enough to hurl the ball of wild magic that Harry had tried so desperately to absorb in July. And Harry cursed himself for not realizing that earlier about his enemy—that what he faced was probably the lieutenant of a much more dangerous wizard, who had lent his power to Harry’s immediate enemy for that attack. After all, why would someone who could send wild magic after Harry waste time flying about in disguise on a broom?

And Harry had known only one wizard who was both that powerful and supposedly dead—in the same raid on Azkaban that had supposedly killed Mulciber.

“ _Snape_ ,” he snarled, and Mulciber cast the Imperius Curse.

Harry was so enraged that he threw it off without even hesitating, and then started to step forwards, before he remembered Draco behind him, just as naked as he was and far more vulnerable. He moved back again, cast a variant of the Shield Charm that would cover Draco, and then leaped at Snape. He was the more dangerous, the one Harry had to kill before he could be safely stopped.

*

Draco stared for long moments after the Shield Charm went up. His mind was so confused that he thought he understood exactly why Harry’s enemies had decided to attack while they were both naked. He vaguely recognized the man with his hood pulled back as someone who had been at Death Eater meetings, but he didn’t recall his name. He saw the man cast the Unforgivable, Harry shake it off like water, and heard Harry say, “ _Snape_ ,” in what seemed to be the same moment.

 _Severus_? Draco stared in turn at the other impassive, cloaked figure. _He made an Unbreakable Vow to protect me. Why would he be here, hunting Harry like this?_

He tried to take a step forwards, and that was when he ran into an impossibly strong Shield Charm and realized what Harry had done.

And then the Veela reared up violently, because its mate was in danger and, so far as it was concerned, Draco couldn’t take care of Harry by himself.

Draco felt his wings slide into being, shaking out of his shoulders like flags stirred by the wind, and he screamed, the full-throated screech of an attacking Veela. The Death Eater, who was turning to cast a curse at Harry’s back, whipped around to face him, his eyes painfully wide. Draco crouched, then pushed off from the floor, using his wings to guide himself between the edge of the Shield Charm and the ceiling.

He couldn’t really fly, but he could glide, and his rage and his instincts carried him into the Death Eater with another scream. He clasped his wings to his sides as he came down. He knew _exactly_ what he needed to do; the Veela’s thoughts were his, the daydreams it gave him happening at the same time as his attacks.

Magic brewed along his flanks, burned against his ribs, and built up like heat trapped under blankets. The man beneath Draco was trying to lift his wand, but Draco noticed that and sent a concentrated blast of the allure at him. At once, his hand sagged, and a silly smile crossed his face.

Draco lifted his wings.

Blue-white power, a wave of light and fire too radiant to look at, rushed from under his wings and struck the Death Eater from either side, making him jerk and scream and try ineffectively to cover himself. Then his limbs froze and shriveled, as if the fire was also lightning, and he seemed to fall in on himself. When Draco, blinking, could see properly, he realized the intense heat had reduced the man to nothing more than a fine gray powder.

On an ordinary day, he would have paused to gape in shock. But on an ordinary day, his mate wasn’t in danger.

He turned as much as the confined space would allow him and looked at Severus. If he could find out what the man was doing there—if he could somehow soothe the dispute between him and Harry, whatever it had originated in—

And then he realized his mother was there, standing between him and Severus, her hands extended and the expression on her face lovely and sweet and soft.

“Mum?” he whispered, and shivered to realize how much he sounded like a child. His wings trembled, on the verge of collapse.

“Draco,” she said softly. “I came with Severus. It’s been too dangerous to show my face for the past several years. They would have tried me and put me in Azkaban, the way they did your father.” She slid to her knees. “Will you forgive me, please? Forgive me and welcome me back into your life?”

Draco’s vision blurred with the rapidity of his breath.

*

Snape had lost none of his talent with a wand in the years since Harry had last seen him, he had to admit. Even in the confined space of the restaurant, and with the young man he had nearly given his life to protect close by, he sent nasty curses with consummate skill, and refused to step back into the wall or door or some other corner that would have given Harry an advantage over him as far as maneuvering went. Nor did he waste his breath on taunts. In that, he had changed, and it was not a change for the better.

Harry whirled aside from a black line of fire that he didn’t recognize, and grimly countered with a Blasting Curse that was swatted aside. Then he saw movement off to the side, and Snape muttered a spell Harry recognized at it. _Praestigiae Cara_ , the Beloved Illusion.

Then Draco’s voice said, “Mum?” and Harry, though unable to take his eyes off his opponent, knew whom he must see. He gritted his teeth. The force of Draco’s love and grief for his mother would make the illusion more solid, but the moment he touched it, he would be entirely under Snape’s power.

Harry couldn’t let that happen.

He rolled to the side before he considered what was going to happen, feeling only a slight cold mist as he passed through the illusion; he had not known Narcissa, so she was not solid to _him_. He pushed into Draco, sent him sprawling flat with his greater weight, and looked up in time to hear Snape muttering the end of a spell that he knew far too well.

“ _Ardeo_!” he said.

Harry was far too aware of the position of his body, something Kingsley had taught them during training for the Hermes Corps. If he met Snape’s curse and deflected it, he would leave Draco vulnerable to whatever nonverbal spell Snape wanted to cast next; the snake was simply too _fast_. And if he remained still, there was a good chance that the Burning Dart would hurt Draco instead.

He did the only thing he could, turning and wrapping himself fully around Draco, using his body as a shield.

*

Draco didn’t understand. One moment he was moving towards his mother, the next moment he was on the floor with Harry on top of him—and _not_ in a pleasant way, given that his elbow had landed in Draco’s gut. Draco coughed and pushed at him, trying to make him move.

“ _Ardeo_!”

Harry twisted.

Draco could still see over his shoulder, and so he saw the brilliant blast of flame from Severus’s wand—it had to be Severus, he knew that voice—strike Harry’s spine and burn a hole through his back, sending insistent tendrils of fire worming into his skin in search of the vital organs. Harry screamed, but he never relinquished his hold on Draco, probably so that the spell couldn’t hurt him. Indeed, his arms tightened nearly to the breaking point.

And the Veela, stunned for a moment by Draco’s human grief, came roaring back.

Draco screamed. His voice ripped higher and higher, so that Severus staggered and put his hands over his ears. He did not drop his wand, but it was a near thing.

Draco snarled at his former mentor, feeling the heavy weight of wings settling on his shoulders. He would lift them in a moment, and then the fire would fly at Severus and _burn him_.

His mate was hurt. _His mate was hurt_. Any stupid human should have known better than to do that.

His mother had vanished, he noticed dimly. It was likely she had never really been there. But it barely mattered, in the face of what he would do to Severus in a moment.

Perhaps Severus knew that, because he vanished. With the immediate danger gone, Draco calmed and could turn his attention to Harry, whose back was covered with an ugly red wound. He hadn’t lost any blood—the Burning Dart had cauterized the injury even as it cut into him—but he didn’t have long to live.

Draco knew what he had to do. The Veela told him.

He wrapped Harry in his arms and wings and lifted him easily. Then he Apparated straight to St. Mungo’s, ripping through the spells on the Phoenix’s Nest meant to prevent Apparition with scarcely a thought. Nor did it matter that they were naked. It mattered that he get his mate to the Healers _this instant_. Any secondary consideration could wait.

*

Harry slowly opened his eyes. A white fuzz greeted him, and for long moments he wanted to panic, wondering if he had gone blind. But his limbs were too heavy to panic. The most he managed was a turn of his head to the side and a soft moan.

In the next moment, Draco was there beside him. Harry couldn’t see much more than another blur of white, surrounded by blond, but he knew the touch on his cheek. He twitched his fingers feebly, wishing he could raise his hand and clasp the other man’s wrist.

“Lie still, Harry,” Draco said, his voice oddly soft. “You won’t be standing up for quite a while. The Healers saved you, but you took heavy internal injuries. And the Burning Dart curse interacted with your magical aura to drive your power wonky.” He shook his head—at least, Harry thought that was what it meant when the white-blond blur moved back and forth. “Only you would manage to attract that much damage in the private room of a restaurant,” he muttered, his voice fond.

 _Snape_. Harry stiffened in anxiety, and started to sit up again. “I have to let Kingsley know—“

“The Aurors _do_ know,” Draco said, and now his voice was harsh. He shoved Harry flat again, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to show that he most definitely did not want Harry standing. “I told them when they showed up at St. Mungo’s because of a naked Veela holding a naked Auror and screaming at the Healers to do something.” One of his hands moved to Harry’s chest, covering his heart; the other flattened out over his lightning bolt scar. “I gave them every detail of the battle I could remember. They’ll look for Snape, now, and it’s unlikely that he can escape detection much longer. His greatest asset was that no one knew he was alive, and so they all assumed that a dangerous Potions master must be someone else, or a group.” Draco pressed down, as if he could impress on Harry the need to lie still through his touch alone. “He didn’t think I would be there, or else he believed that we wouldn’t leave the room alive. He was willing to kill me, or at least control me.”

Harry tried to struggle again. “Mulciber—“

“I killed him.”

Harry froze. For a moment, far more than the memories of the battle, his mind was full of a sixteen-year-old Draco hesitating on top of the Astronomy Tower, his wand drooping, his face full of fear and pain and longing and disbelief.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, nuzzling into Draco’s hand and wishing he could see his face better.

Draco’s voice was soft and astonished. “Whatever for?”

“That you had to kill—“

“Harry.” Draco leaned down towards him again, nestling his cheek against Harry’s. “The Veela made it easy. Mulciber was threatening you. _Anyone_ who does that has to face me. Snape is just lucky that he managed to leave before I burned him with the same fire that killed Mulciber.”

“But it isn’t fair that you should have had to do that.”

Draco was silent for long moments, his palms smoothing Harry’s hair, chest, and neck. Then he murmured, “You’re right. It isn’t fair.” He sat back, and if Harry couldn’t see his face, he could at least hear his voice, which left him in no doubt whatsoever what Draco was feeling. “And if you had told me that you were in danger from the beginning, it might not have come to this.”

Harry closed his eyes. Guilt was a familiar companion, but not this kind of guilt. Usually, he struggled under the impression that no matter what he did, it wouldn’t have been enough. During the war, he had felt he was useless if he could not prevent every death. While working as an Auror, he had wanted to save everyone, capture every criminal, or what was the use?

But this—

Here, he saw a clear and simple path he could have taken that would have resulted in Draco’s not having to kill, and in his not lying in a hospital bed, useless for God knew how many weeks. He should have told Draco or Kingsley about the first letter from Mulciber, and then he could have

( _suffered under protection_ )

ensured that these other things didn’t happen. He hadn’t _known_ they would happen, of course, but really, had he thought Draco would never find out about this? Had he thought he would be able to resist his enemy completely? After the attack in July, he should have known it was only luck, and probably the increased control of his magic that Draco’s Veela gave him, that had let him survive. There were many things that he should have done, and the only real way to make up for them was not to do them in the future.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right. I should have told you.”

Draco gave a low snarl, a sound of victory if Harry had ever heard one. He gripped Harry’s chin and tilted his head back. Harry opened his eyes again, and this time he could see Draco better, though he didn’t know if that was a function of his distance or his eyes actually clearing.

“Why did you keep it hidden?” he asked. “You never fully explained what happened. I agreed not to push you at the time, because I thought you needed your space, but now I don’t think this should be a secret.”

Harry raised his hand and lightly stroked Draco’s wrist with his fingertips. Strange, strange, the way he didn’t feel the crushing dread of confession that he would have with Ginny. Telling his mistakes to her was worse than making them in the first place. But here, he actually _wanted_ to tell Draco.

“Part of it is what I already told you,” he said quietly. “I wanted something secret, something I didn’t have to tell. And part of it is that I feel alive when I’m _risking_ my life. It’s one of the major reasons I became an Auror.” He managed a smile. “You probably guessed that, after the risks you saw me take at Quidditch.”

“From now on,” Draco said, “remember that when you risk your life, you’re risking mine, too.”

Harry licked his lips. The same odd lack of reluctance made him want to agree with Draco, but—“Being an Auror does involve an essential element of risk, Draco.”

Draco’s arm slipped behind his shoulders, shifting him slightly so that he could take Harry’s lips in a deep kiss. Harry moaned and surrendered. The kiss sent currents of warmth flowing through him, and he relaxed and felt the mounting pain in his back and chest retreat.

“There are older Aurors,” Draco whispered when he finished the kiss, his lips barely an inch from Harry’s. “I won’t prevent you from returning to work, but I do demand _some_ consideration. No more insane risks like this one, Harry.” His hand shifted and flitted restlessly along Harry’s face, as if he feared what would happen should he let go. “Promise me.”

Harry turned his head to the side and nuzzled against Draco’s arm. “I promise,” he said. It was remarkably easy. He _wanted_ to give Draco the promise. That puzzled him mightily, but since it was the first clear and simple thing he could remember wanting in some time that wasn’t sex, he was inclined to obey the impulse.

“Good,” Draco said, and sat back. “As for feeling alive, I believe I can solve that problem for you with the challenges of ordinary life, Harry.” His voice had deepened and turned grim. “It didn’t take long for word of our arrival at the hospital to spread, and once it came out that I was a Veela, well…it’s hit the papers that we’re lovers, Harry.”

“Oh.” Harry blinked for a long moment. Then he said, “We’ll take that as it comes.”

It was Draco’s turn to freeze. Harry couldn’t see why. Then he said, “Do you mean that?”

“Yes, of course.” Harry let out a shaky breath. “I’m not ready to think about the full bonding yet, and I suppose something could happen to rip us apart, but… I’m _fairly_ sure that this is what I want.”

The next moment, Draco was kissing him again, this time so fiercely that Harry felt unable to do anything but tip his head back and go along for the ride. The joy he felt communicated itself through his lips, and Harry laughed in the back of his throat as he stroked the hair at the nape of Draco’s neck.

“Go to sleep,” Draco said at last.

Harry obeyed, and happily.

*

Draco felt the Veela flapping around inside him like a swan in a small pool of water as he watched Harry sleep. He had been unconscious for nearly a week, and Draco had spent the time in and out of St. Mungo’s and Malfoy Manor, followed by the press wherever he went. He had had to soothe Pansy several times a day. He had had to play Quidditch when what he really wanted was to sit at Harry’s side. He had had to field several hysterical owls from Ginny Weasley. He had had to deal with the Aurors asking questions again and again, including far too many obviously willing to believe that he had somehow aided Severus and Mulciber in the attack on Harry. He had had to come to terms with the fact that his old mentor was alive and willing to kill his mate.

But this moment—

This moment was worth it.

Draco clenched his hand on Harry’s arm and looked steadily at the face of the man he was, by now, utterly in love with. It was still too thin, too coated with shadows, and hiding secrets that Draco wanted to share. And he still hesitated on the brink of committing himself completely.

But Harry was his as far as Draco was concerned. His patient coaxing and his respect for Harry’s free will had paid off.

A Healer opened the door. “Mr. Malfoy, visiting hours are over, I’m afraid,” she said, politely but firmly.

Draco smiled at her, and let the Veela allure shine through his cheeks and eyes. “Oh,” he said. “Just a moment more.”

The Healer blinked dazedly, smiled back, and then murmured, “Yes, of course, you should have that,” and shut the door again, with exaggerated softness.

Draco turned back to Harry and kissed him one more time, this time on his scar.

He hadn’t predicted what would happen when the Potions accident took place, no, but he found himself more than satisfied with the results.


	18. October (Part One)

“You understand, I hope,” said Kingsley, his voice sharp enough to cut glass, “that you should have come to me at once.”

Harry kept his head bowed, even as he nodded. If he looked up too soon, then Kingsley would see the defiance in his eyes.

He understood that he should have reported the mysterious letters and attacks to his superior, yes. He had already apologized for that. A prolonged scolding was something that he didn’t need, and which no one else in the Hermes Corps had ever received, at least since Harry had joined them. It was as if Kingsley believed he was still a fifteen-year-old boy at heart, and wouldn’t learn without being told that he was a naughty child.

Kingsley sighed. Harry was sure he had just pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, because he tended to do that when dealing with Harry. Harry sat in a chair in front of his desk, and Kingsley had pushed his own seat quite a distance away on the other side, as if sitting so close to Harry disgusted him.

Expecting more sharp words, Harry was surprised, a moment later, to hear his boss murmur, “You face threats that no one else ever has, Harry, and the consequences of your actions don’t just _vanish_. Death Eaters aren’t spells. You should have come to us at once because you face greater problems, not because you’re incompetent to take care of yourself. And from what you’ve told me about Snape running free…you were lucky not to be killed dealing with him.”

Harry looked up at last. Kingsley had pushed his chair close to the other side of the desk again, and gazed at him seriously.

“I understand, sir,” Harry said at last. “And now that--well, now that you know everything, I think you may know why I didn’t.”

Kingsley grunted, as though to say that his understanding didn’t really matter one way or the other. “You’re to be suspended from Hermes Corps for a number of months this time, Harry,” he said. “An absence from the Ministry for at least a fortnight, with bodyguards, and then you’ll be on paperwork duty until the end of the year, without bodyguards only when you’re in the Ministry.”

Harry clenched his jaw. He had known the punishment would be severe. He supposed he should feel lucky not to be sacked. And to be alive, as Kingsley had said; when he shifted, he could still feel his robes pulling over the large amount of barely healed new skin on his back.

“Yes, sir,” he said reluctantly. “But what about Ralph? Since he needs a partner for work in the Corps--”

Kingsley had started to sign a piece of paper that was probably his official or semi-official reprimand, but at Harry’s words he paused. “I have already told him my decision,” he said. “You can speak with him about it yourself, if you’d like.”

Harry peered anxiously at Kingsley, disliking the tone in his voice, but from that moment on, Kingsley seemed to have become both blind and deaf. He signed Harry’s paperwork and explained the schedule of the rotating bodyguards in a monotone voice. Harry was to have Aurors with him at all times, including inside Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. One would remain in the bedroom with him at night, while the other would guard outside the door. Harry could be alone to use the loo, but that was virtually the only privacy he would have.

Harry might have tried to argue him out of it, but he knew he had used up all his slack with Kingsley this time. And he recognized none of the names of the Aurors assigned to him, which meant they were older men and women, from the generation of Magical Law Enforcement that Harry had worked with least. Some of them might be in awe of him, but they would do their duty in a way that Harry’s friends might have been persuaded out of.

At one point, as he fought to accept it instead of sulking, Kingsley looked up and caught his eye.

He frowned, then leaned across the desk and spoke in a tight voice. “I should make this very clear right now, Potter. There is no place in the Hermes Corps for someone who disregards his own life in the way you’ve done. Someone who does that might very well disregard his partner’s, and that’s not what we’re here for.”

“No, sir,” Harry agreed tightly, and sat back in the chair, carefully counting his breaths and trying not to make the office rattle with his magic. Kingsley eyed him once, sniffed, and went back to reading.

His first bodyguards met him as he departed the office, a stolid-looking fellow named Tallow and an older witch with a friendly smile but cold eyes named Selene. Harry gave them dismal nods and turned down the corridor. Since he had to leave the Ministry immediately and not return for two weeks, he couldn’t speak with Ralph right now.

He wished he could. He wanted to know how a friend, not someone who wanted to gossip about the Boy-Who-Lived, had taken the news of his relationship with Draco. Tallow and Selene, of course, seemed disinclined to comment on it even if their orders would have let them do so.

But, as much as had changed, he didn’t want to upend his life further by losing his job. So he left the Ministry, tried to remember what books in the Black library had looked as if they might actually intrigue him, and settled in to wait.

He didn’t want to admit how much an owl from Draco, arriving a few hours later, helped.

*

“You wanted to speak with me?” Draco asked Branwen’s back. His coach had kept him after practice and guided him into her private office at the back of the pitch, where no Falcons usually went unless they’d done something incredibly idiotic in practice. Draco knew that wasn’t him. He had been brilliant, just as he had been ever since his liaison with Harry back in February.

Branwen turned around and stared hard at him. She was an imposing woman, so much so that someone intimidated by her easily forgot that her face looked like slabs of meat put together by clumsy hands. It had been a year since Draco was afraid of her. He watched her politely, his hands folded behind his back.

“You’re a Veela, Malfoy,” said Branwen, as if that connoted something obvious, and then paused.

“Very well done,” Draco murmured. It wasn’t as if the _Daily Prophet_ hadn’t been repeating it nonstop, along with speculations that Draco had used his Veela charm and nothing else to induce Harry into falling for him. Since Branwen hadn’t spoken to him about it before now, Draco had assumed she wanted to ignore the whole thing and replace the taunting articles with the news of a Falcons victory.

Branwen worked her jaw back and forth several times. Then she said, “You’re off the team, Malfoy.”

Draco smiled thinly. He had been preparing himself for those words for a long time, particularly since the _Daily Prophet_ occasionally got bored and dug out the tales of his “Death Eater” days again. Branwen had always ignored them, but Draco had always known the owners of the team might one day take fright at the bad publicity and pressure her into sacking him.

“Because of my last name, I reckon,” he said.

Branwen slapped her hands together and glared at him. “Of _course_ not,” she said, as if he had insulted her. “Because Veela have bloody _wings_ , and I can’t let you have an unfair advantage over everyone else.”

Draco stared at her a moment. Then he said, still with a feeling of suppressed hilarity bobbing up in him, “But I can control the wings. I would never summon them during a match.”

“Quidditch regulations,” Branwen said darkly. “We can’t hire a Veela for the teams, or, for that matter, any other magical creature who can fly. It puts the other players at too much of a disadvantage.”

Draco had never really imagined that prejudices against magical creatures in the wizarding world would apply to him.--especially not once he found out he was a Veela. One simply did not sack a creature who could appear beautiful enough to make dozens of people want to fuck him.

He briefly considered using the allure on Branwen. But it wouldn’t work for long; even if he could convince her that she didn’t really want to be rid of him, sooner or later someone distant from him, probably one of the team’s owners, would notice and do something Draco couldn’t counteract. And then the _Daily Prophet_ would have an even grander time calling him something violent, inhuman, and ready to use his magic for his own advantage than they were already having.

He bowed a bit, making sure Branwen could see his eyes and knew how displeased he was with this.

She stared back at him, frowning, hands on her hips, and then shook her head. “You should have come to me about this when you first had your accident,” she said. “It was announcing yourself as a Veela publicly that did it. We could have found some way to keep it quiet if you’d let me know.”

Draco blinked for a moment. He had assumed she was glad to see him go. “You don’t want me to leave?”

“With you on the team, we _win_ , Malfoy,” said Branwen, waving one heavy arm. “Now we have to lose you and train another Seeker at the same time, with our first matches of the season not far away. No, I didn’t want you to leave.”

Feeling oddly comforted--he had never accounted Branwen a friend, but he would not have wanted to consider her an enemy either--Draco gave her a short nod and then turned to depart the room and fetch his broom and Quidditch gear. For the first negative result beyond mere attention and stress from his relationship with Harry, this one had been surprisingly mild.

And he would do the same thing all over again in order to save Harry’s life, or have him in his own.

As he drew his gloves out of his trunk and hooked them to his belt, Draco smiled slightly. _And this leaves me more room and time to court Harry, as well as making sure that Pansy doesn’t embarrass me further_. The discovery of his Veela had meant loud and public sympathy for Pansy and the little Weasley, but Draco intended to turn that around when he finished his enchantment of Pansy. Someone slobbering and wailing over a firmly mated Veela would inspire only revulsion and laughter, not sympathy.

And she still had at least one more cache of the photographs to give him, hidden somewhere neither Draco nor the house-elves had been able to discover or persuade out of her. Draco didn’t really mind people gaping at his naked body, but he bristled at the mere thought of someone else drooling over his mate that way.

*

Harry sighed and waved his wand, burning the Howler that had come in through the window. Not even the presence of his bodyguards could control them entirely, and Harry sometimes listened to them for entertainment.

There was so little else to _do_.

He had never realized how much his job formed the center of his days. Before this crisis with the Veela, Ginny had been the bigger part, the person he looked forwards to spending time with, but she was gone now--and in any case, her company hadn’t been a source of pleasure for months. Draco had said he would stay away from Harry for a week, to give the rumors a chance to settle and Harry’s bodyguards time to lose suspicion of him. That left Harry to read in the Black library, hold uninteresting conversations with his bodyguards (they claimed talking with him distracted them from their tasks), and listen to, and then burn, Howlers.

Unless he wanted to think.

Harry had avoided that for as long as possible, but now he thought he had no choice.

He leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, and stared at the ceiling. Tallow and Selene were on duty again today, and the one thing Harry enjoyed about their company was that they didn’t consider themselves entitled to his thoughts, as a few of the others, who seemed to believe Harry might run off again at any moment, did. He could think for hours on end, and the only thing they might ask was if he were hungry.

So, he had to think again: what did he want _now_?

He knew he wanted Draco in his life. But in what capacity? He had read a little more about Veela, and the more he read, the more nervous he felt, instead of better-informed. Different books argued about the origin of the Veela’s magic and how long and successfully they had interbred with wizards and witches, but they were absolutely clear on one point: in every case, the mate and Veela became the center of each other’s lives. The bonding and the few months before it were the clearest examples. The Veela would court its mate constantly, obsessively, at least until it was sure that the mate wouldn’t turn away from it on a whim or pay more attention to anyone else than to it. Only afterwards would normal friendships and life with people outside the immediate pair of them resume.

Harry had thought he could deal with limited amounts of contact like that, and by the time they bonded--

 _It’s a matter of when, not if, now_.

\--he would have accepted the idea that he had to have full-out sex with Draco. But he didn’t like the idea of months of intense courting, to begin the moment Draco decided to ignore the constant front-page articles the _Daily Prophet_ deemed them worthy of.

One thing that bothered him was how little he knew of Draco as an ordinary person, in ordinary moments. Sharing desperate sex and occasional games of Quidditch and life-saving battles was all very well, but how was he to know that he would _like_ the person he would end up tied to for the rest of his life? In their Hogwarts days, all Harry had really known was Draco the right smarmy git. Could he reacquire that personality the moment they finished bonding? Would he?

_And now you sound like a girl._

Harry ran a hand irritably over his face. He wished he could run, which might soothe his feelings the way it had when he had thought his enemy was still hunting him. But Tallow and Selene would insist on going with him, and while Harry’s Muggle neighbors could ignore one man panting along the streets, the same followed obsessively by a man and woman would look unacceptably strange.

Maybe he should think about Snape instead--except that he already believed he knew how the Potions master had managed to escape detection for so long, and in any case, thinking about him would only increase Harry’s desire to start hunting him, right now, which he couldn’t do for months.

He stood abruptly and walked towards the kitchen, where he would prepare tea for himself and something else that would take a long time to cook but involve relatively simple steps. Tallow and Selene followed him at once, their wands out and their eyes on the walls as if the house were still full of the same dark secrets it had harbored in Sirius’s time. Harry hardly kept himself from snorting aloud.

_I wish Kingsley hadn’t chosen Aurors who take their duty so damn seriously. It would hardly do them some harm to relax and acquire a sense of humor._

Harry knew what Kingsley would say if he mentioned that, of course. He would say levelly that Harry obviously didn’t value his life enough, or else that he was obviously uneasy and required more company. And then, the next time Harry looked, the number of bodyguards would have increased to three.

A sudden thought made his steps slow, and he had to think more deeply about this subject than he would have liked.

_Do I really value my life enough, where Draco is concerned? My death would kill him. I don’t want to do that; I want to keep him alive. But if I really value that, why do I snort and chafe and insist that I can take care of myself? I really couldn’t in the battle with Snape. I would have died if not for Draco._

Harry went to the kitchen in a calmer mood than he’d been since his suspension. At least it was something new, to think that he didn’t really value the promise he had made to Draco because it was so hard for him to keep it.

*

“Are you sure that you want to do this, darling?” Draco made sure that his voice was soft and tender, his eyes focused on Pansy. “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to, you know. We can stop now, and I can come to the bed, take you in my arms, and--”

“No!” Pansy said, sounding a little desperate, and arched her hips. Her naked body, which Draco had once found attractive, bounced a little as she shifted positions. “I want to do this.”

Draco smiled. Let her take it for an encouraging expression, which she undoubtedly would, since she was under the dominion of the Veela allure, when really it was only relief that he wouldn’t have to perform actions he could only truly imagine doing with Harry now. “Arrange yourself with your hands above your head then, love. I have to be sure that you aren’t touching any part of your body.”

Pansy eagerly wriggled into position, breathing lightly, her eyes fixed on him. Draco concealed his disgust as best as he could with another smile, and then began to murmur.

“You haven’t seen me all day. You’re not sure where I am, but you know that when I return, you’ll feel the greatest pleasure of your life, so you’re willing to give me some time to return. You tire, and so you lie down here, on our bed, where we’ve made love so often. You close your eyes, but you don’t quite go to sleep; your ears are still listening for me. You can’t open your eyes, however.”

Draco himself didn’t think his words a convincing imitation of the Imperius Curse, but once again it seemed that the books he’d read about Veela were more correct than he had given them credit for. Pansy was already under the influence of the allure, and just as she found it easier to do anything he said than resist, so she found it easy to listen to him where most people would have struggled against his words. Her eyes fell shut, and every single twitch of her body lapsed into attentive stillness.

“You hear me coming at last,” Draco whispered, while increasing the allure so that it would rise in Pansy’s mind like a mist. He stalked a few steps closer, eyes intent, though if Pansy opened her eyes she would not see the true emotions that made them so. “Such soft steps, as though I sense that you’re half-asleep and don’t want to disturb you.”

“Disturb me, Draco,” Pansy said, and arched her back like a stereotype of a virgin sacrifice on an altar. If there was ever a time in her life when she could have played the virgin convincingly, however, that was long gone. The moan she gave a moment later, full-throated, proved that. Draco found himself comparing it to the soft noises Harry had made during their latest time together in bed, and discovered it was entirely lacking. “Please. Make me writhe. Make me yours.”

“Patience, patience, love,” Draco whispered, his mouth set in a fake grin. He didn’t think his control would falter, but he had pushed further than he should have and had Pansy rebuff him before this. He wouldn’t take the chance now. “ _Can_ you hear me coming? _Can_ you hear my footfalls? _Can_ you sense the love you bear for me, even with only your ears to bring it to you?”

Pansy moaned again, and gooseflesh spilled over her skin, starting in the valley between her breasts and working down towards her legs. “I can hear you _so_ well, Draco. _Please_ , touch me.”

“I am,” Draco said softly. “My hand is on your left thigh.”

Pansy started and squealed. Draco still stood several feet from the bed, of course, so he could not really have touched her at all, but Pansy was deep enough in the hypnosis that he created not to know that. She was the one who had suggested this game in the first place, with Draco trying to make her come with his voice alone, but now she seemed to believe it was entirely real. She whispered, “Your hand feels so good. So warm.”

“Of course it does,” said Draco. He halted a few feet away from her and wondered how long this would take. He wanted to write a letter to Harry proposing they meet in a few days, and since Harry’s last letter had been cautious, for some reason, Draco would have to choose his words carefully so as not to scare him off. “Every time I touch you feels warm, Pansy.”

“It does, it does,” she murmured, with the sound of someone chanting a mantra.

“I slide my hand towards your crotch,” Draco said softly. “What will I find there? Wetness?”

“Yes, _yes_!’ Again she arched her back, and her head rolled towards him. If she could have opened her eyes, Draco was sure he would have seen her pupils fully dilated, a deep, worshipful, reverent gaze directed at him. “Draco, I’m so wet for you. No one else could ever arouse me like this, never.”

 _I can believe that_. At least his allure had this side effect now: he could control her without touching her. Draco had been willing to manage sex with her a few months ago. Now he didn’t think he could have forced himself hard no matter how he thought about Harry. His heart and his body would both know that it wasn’t Harry in the bed with him.

He sighed and proceeded to talk his way through the verbal seduction of his wife, with Pansy reacting every time as though he had actually touched her, moaning and sighing out her arousal and adulation. At last Draco said that he bit her shoulder and told her to come, and Pansy vibrated with an orgasm that literally shook her and then dropped her into a limp, sobbing heap.

Draco moved over and stroked her shoulder. If all went well, she should mistake the gesture for a much more tender one in the depths of her hypnosis.

She opened her eyes and turned a look on him. Draco’s hand faltered in mid-stroke.

The books had described this, too, but it was usually on the face of someone who had spent much more time in the presence of the Veela allure than Pansy, often when a wife or husband didn’t realize that their spouse had become a Veela at all. Pansy’s pupils were nothing more than tiny black pinpricks. She put out a groping hand and caught his, and every muscle of her frame trembled until he spoke.

She was his. He could do anything now, up to and including an order that she kill herself, and she would not oppose him.

Nearly drunk with the sense of power, Draco bent, smoothing a curl of her blonde hair back behind her ear, and breathed on her face. Pansy sighed.

“Dear?” he whispered.

“Love,” she said at once. Her eyes remained open, dreaming, but still slightly fixed on him, as if she saw only him, surrounded by a background of light.

“Where is the last cache of photographs, Pansy?” he whispered, while his hand moved in a constant, gentle stroke. When she didn’t respond, he lifted his palm, and she whimpered in distress, but she also told him what he wanted to know.

“Grin-Gringotts,” she breathed. “The Parkinson vault.”

Draco smiled, and went back to petting her. “Good girl,” he said.

*

Harry shook his head a little as he stared at the front page of the paper. The _Daily Prophet_ said Draco being sacked from the Falmouth Falcons had happened several days ago, but either Draco’s coach had waited until now to release the news or else the constant speculation about their relationship had pushed it off the front page until now.

Harry stared at it a little longer, then stood decisively. He’d spent too much time sitting at a distance, stewing over what he couldn’t do, when he could be comforting--and confronting--Draco. Draco would probably deny that he needed comfort for anything, especially this, but Harry thought he would at least appreciate the gesture, as coming from his mate. And he owed Draco for the days and nights he’d sat by his bed in hospital.

And, he had to admit, he missed him and _wanted_ to see him. If he loved Draco, he shouldn’t need an excuse.

“Where are we going, sir?” Selene asked from behind him. She was always the more formal of the pair; no matter how times Harry asked her to address him by his first name, she would simply smile and use the title next time. Tallow might have allowed Harry to get away with more if he guarded him alone, which had made Harry realize, grudgingly, how intelligent Kingsley had been to assign the guards in the pairs he did.

“To Malfoy Manor,” said Harry, and lengthened his strides as he left the library and headed towards the stairs. He could hear them following him, but for long moments they said nothing, and he hoped they wouldn’t.

“Oh,” said Tallow suddenly, in a small voice. Harry halted and glanced back at him. A faint blush stained his cheeks, as if one of the pictures of Draco sitting by Harry’s bedside in St. Mungo’s had just appeared before him. “I--that is to say, the stories are true? You’re _really_ dating him?”

Harry snorted. “If you want to call saving each other’s lives dating. He’s a Veela and I’m his mate, yes. That part is true.”

Tallow gave a small shake of his head. “But he doesn’t need you to save his life now, does he?”

Harry narrowed his eyes and studied the other man more closely. Tallow was determinedly avoiding his gaze a moment later, though. “Probably not,” said Harry. “But I want to see him. Is there a problem?”

“I’ve known several Malfoys,” said Tallow shortly. “They don’t--you can’t trust them, sir. There are probably reasons that you’re sleeping with him and saving his life. I wouldn’t know them, because you have your own honor, sir. But I think it’s a mistake to assume that you’re _friends_.”

Harry just went on staring. He had expected people to hate him for cheating on his wife and succumbing to a Veela’s attraction. He had not taken Draco’s past into account when this came up.

“I am at least his friend,” he said at last. He couldn’t say Draco was a good man, because he strongly suspected that Draco was only a good man towards _him_ , but he would say this. “And if you have a problem with my going to Malfoy Manor and referring to him as at least my friend, I suggest you stay here. Or, better, tell Kingsley that you don’t want to guard me any more when you return to the Ministry, and I am sure that he can find some way of sparing you this onerous task.”

Tallow flushed, and shifted position as if he were a Gryffindor student facing McGonagall’s full wrath. “I didn’t mean to question you,” he said. “I just--it just doesn’t seem right to me, that’s all.”

“Noted,” Harry said dryly, and briefly glanced at Selene. She just regarded him with a faint smile, as if to say it was all one to her whether they stayed in Grimmauld Place or went to Malfoy Manor; she could defend him just as well in either place.

Shaking his head sharply, Harry began walking again. He knew he would have to step outside the house and Apparate, not least because he had no idea if the Floo connection at the Manor was open for him, and because his guards wouldn’t want him traveling by a method that was as likely to spin them apart as keep them together. He spent the few minutes turning different words over in his head, wondering if he should speak them to Draco or not.

 _I missed you?_ Certainly true, but he didn’t know if Draco wanted to hear them.

 _Why didn’t you tell me that you’d been sacked?_ Not the most diplomatic opening to a conversation, and since Draco hadn’t included that news in his letters to Harry, it was possible that he didn’t want to talk about it at all.

 _I wanted to see you_. Truest, and simplest, and probably best.

They appeared on the outer grounds of Malfoy Manor, at the absolute limit of the anti-Apparition wards on the house. Harry was startled and disconcerted for a moment, until he remembered that the exception Draco had built into the wards for him wouldn’t include the Aurors. He shook his head and began walking briskly up the path, deliberately calming his breathing all the way.

A house-elf appeared to meet them when Harry knocked on the door, its ears fluttering and its eyes bulging. “Master Malfoy is not being here,” it squeaked. “But he said that Harry Potter is always welcome, always.” It gave a dubious look at Tallow and Selene, but Harry suspected he could persuade the little creature to let them in. He smiled and opened his mouth to do so.

“What are _you_ doing here?”

Startled, Harry looked up. Pansy had swept down the main spiral staircase of the Manor to stand behind the elf, who squeaked again and darted out of the way, tugging on its ears to punish itself. Pansy paid no attention to it. Instead, she stared at Harry with a look of intense dislike on her face.

Harry blinked. He knew that Pansy probably hadn’t taken the news of his and Draco’s deepening relationship much better than Ginny had, but Draco had confirmed that they had married each other out of convenience and because they’d suited each other at the time. He’d imagined that she had already left, content with enough money to cover her living expenses.

This woman didn’t look at _all_ as though she intended to move out, or stop being Draco’s wife. She glared at him with open hatred that could have rivaled the look Snape had worn when Harry was at Hogwarts, and she trembled now and then, as if it took all her self-control to keep from flying at him.

“I came to see Draco,” he said cautiously.

She laughed loudly and abruptly. “Of course you did,” she said, and then put one hand over her mouth as though to hold in the giggles. “Of course,” she whispered, but when she dropped her hand, there was no smile beneath the palm. “You are making a nuisance of yourself. Draco doesn’t want you in his life anymore. He told me so himself, before he left this morning.”

Harry blinked again. There was a time when he might well have believed that, but now it sounded like a transparent and ridiculous ploy to get him to slouch away in dejection and never come back.

 _Much like the way she took photographs of us together, as a matter of fact, and then was stupid enough to_ tell _Draco about them._

“Mrs. Malfoy,” he said, because no matter what his exception for Draco he certainly didn’t feel comfortable enough to address Pansy by her first name, “are you quite well?”

“Quite well!” she said, and began to giggle again. The giggle vanished like the first one had, and then she narrowed her eyes and said, “I’ll raise the wards against you if you don’t leave right now.”

Harry shook his head slowly from side to side. Pansy’s behavior reminded him of nothing so much as the behavior of some Death Eater victims when they’d been under the Imperius Curse for long enough to permanently twist their minds, and he couldn’t dismiss the impulse to think that some enemy had broken into the Manor and set a trap for Draco that ended up catching Pansy. One eye remaining on Pansy just in case she tried something, he drew his wand and aimed it at her.

“ _Finite Incantatem_ ,” he murmured, putting all his power behind it. When he truly concentrated, he could project some of his will with the countercurse, giving the victim of an Imperius his own ability to resist its commands. That should awaken Pansy if anything could.

Pansy only sniffed and put her nose in the air. “I’m his mate now,” she said. “He told me so himself.” Her mood abruptly altered again, and her face became soft and dreamy, as if she were envisioning Draco naked in front of her. Harry told himself that feeling jealous and possessive right now was ridiculous. After all, it was not as though Draco would sleep with her by _choice_ anymore.

_I think._

But that left the question of what had happened to Pansy. Harry tried speaking her name softly and then again in an interrogative tone; the only thing that happened was that her dreamy gaze moved slowly back and forth, as if she could hear someone calling her but not see the person.

Harry turned to Selene, who stood nearest to him; Tallow had remained a few feet back, as though even approaching the home of a Malfoy would taint him with invisible dirt. “Do you know what this is?” he breathed. He knew that Selene worked in a group of Aurors who specialized in identifying and defusing certain Dark Arts spells, and often spent more time with the victims than the criminals.

“I’m afraid I do.” Selene’s voice was neutral, and her blue eyes, which Harry had never seen without some trace of a smile before this, watched him as though she were certain he would begin to yell any moment.

“Well?” Harry demanded.

“Veela allure.” Selene’s eyes hardened a bit. “I’ve seen several use it to persuade a reluctant mate to come to bed, and a few half-Veela wizards have been criminals who used it to aid in their crimes.” She nodded at Pansy. “Use it long enough and hard enough, and the victim is left without any free will of her own.”

Harry closed his eyes, feeling sick. He had agreed, without much thought, to Draco’s plan when Draco told him that he was using Veela allure on Pansy. He had envisioned it as persuasion, slow and simple, so that Pansy would come to think all her actions were her own idea. He had not foreseen this.

He had to do something, obviously. He was the one who had discovered the problem, and that made him the one who should fix it.

“Harry?”

Harry winced, and turned around. Draco stood behind Tallow, his eyebrows raised, an expression of cautious delight on his face. It really was hard to tell that he was Veela unless you knew already, at least when he looked like this, Harry thought. His pale hair had perhaps a touch more light than normal, and his eyes could glitter to match his smile, but he had to turn a certain way, adopt a certain attitude, to make himself seem beautiful.

_Or just use the allure._

At the moment, Harry was not inclined to find Draco beautiful.

“Draco,” he said neutrally. “I thought you’d be here.”

“I had an errand at Gringotts.” He strode a few steps nearer, stepping around Tallow as though he were a worm, and all the while looking at Harry with a bright gaze that had no traces of the hunger or passion that Harry had thought would be there if the Veela were controlling him. He looked--happy to see him. As if he wanted to spend time with him. The same emotions that Harry felt welling up in his chest, in fact, and had to struggle hard against, if he wanted to hold Draco accountable for what he had done.

“Don’t _look_ at him like that!” Pansy’s voice was sharp with spite.

Draco swiveled around in a moment, and gazed at her sternly. Harry thought he could _see_ the moment when bolts of the allure struck from his eyes and into Pansy’s brain. She melted with a little shiver and a moan, and her face became so vague and dreamy Harry felt disgust rising up in him.

“Of course, Draco, just as you like,” she murmured.

Harry reached over and clenched one hand down on Draco’s arm, making sure to squeeze hard enough to cause a little pain. “We need to talk,” he snarled, when Draco turned to look at him.


	19. October (Part Two)

_Ah. He found out the full extent of Pansy’s disability, then. And he obviously doesn’t approve._

Not that Draco cared. Harry had done wrong things, too, keeping secrets that could have killed him and then jumping in front of Draco during the battle, forgetting that if he had died from Snape‘s spell, it wouldn’t have mattered how much he’d protected Draco, since the Veela would have followed its mate.

Draco had accepted the inevitable long before Harry had, and done what he had to do to ensure the continuation of the most important bond in his life. For Harry to object to that now was a bit hypocritical.

“Yes, we need to,” he said, turning his hand to grip Harry’s arm back, and gave Pansy a smile. “Just prepare the eastern room for us, will you, dear?”

And Pansy, who would have objected to being ordered about like a house-elf only a few weeks ago, murmured, “Yes, of course, love,” and vanished. Draco sneered at her back. The last stack of photographs made his robe pocket heavy. Pansy had given him the key to the Parkinson vault herself, and the only question she’d had was whether Draco didn’t want to take some of her Galleons as well. She had assured him over and over that she wouldn’t mind.

“We can’t allow Harry to be alone in a room with you, Malfoy,” the heavyset man Draco had already classified as an Auror said suddenly. “God knows what you’ll do to him.” His tone was finicky, but charged with personal animosity, too. Another one of those fools who hated him for his last name, he knew, even before he turned around.

“I’m a Veela,” he said. “And we guard our mates more sternly than my family has _ever_ guarded its gold. I assure you, he’ll be safe with me.”

At least the woman who had come with Harry looked as if she had better sense and knew what he said to be true, but the man only leveled his wand at Draco. “Unhand him, now,” he said.

Harry snarled, and moved in between Draco and the other Auror at once. Draco, knowing there was no serious danger this time, felt rather gratified by his mate’s protectiveness than otherwise. He put his chin on Harry’s shoulder and fluttered his eyes at the Auror, who flushed deeply.

“I _can_ be alone with him, Tallow,” Harry said. “I intend to be.” Draco wondered if he was even aware of the way he pressed his back into Draco’s chest, seeking more contact than their joined hands would allow them. Draco curved his free arm around Harry’s waist, and gave his stomach a slow, possessive stroke. Harry responded by leaning back, but since he had his wand in _his_ free hand now, he didn’t appear to realize how very much like an already bonded mate he was acting. “If you don’t like it, by all means tell Kingsley; I expect he’ll suspend me from the Ministry another week or put me on paperwork duty another month. But don’t expect me to stay away from someone I know means _me_ no harm.”

The subtle emphasis did the trick. Perhaps this Tallow had heard what happened when Draco attacked Mulciber, he thought, as he watched the Auror glare in frustration but slowly lower his wand.

“An hour,” said the woman suddenly. Draco glanced at her, and found blue eyes, sharp and clear as his mother’s had once been, studying him. “You can have an hour of private conversation, and then we come back.”

“That will do,” said Draco, and pulled Harry with him up the steps. Harry went suspiciously, walking backwards and watching the two Aurors all the while. Draco couldn’t keep a drowsy purr of pleasure from rising up his throat, and he nuzzled the back of Harry’s neck and breathed in his scent. God, he’d missed him.

He’d even missed his stubborn temper and disinclination to listen to sense, which he was sure he would be bearing the full brunt of the moment he was out of danger.

And, in fact, Harry whirled around when the door shut behind them, and scowled, and yanked his hand free. Draco could have retained it--the Veela’s superior strength allowed him to do that--but he settled for brushing his fingers lightly over Harry’s retreating palm, and then flicking his tongue over their tips.

Harry flushed, and said, “I suppose you have a _good_ explanation for what you did to your wife?”

“Please, Harry,” Draco said, and swept his arm out. “The eastern room. It’s much more comfortable for this sort of conversation, I assure you.”

“The one where I’ll probably be hurling hexes in a moment?” Harry took a few steps down the corridor Draco had indicated, all the while glaring at him in stern disapproval.

“The one where we have serious moral issues to talk about,” said Draco, and reveled in the expression of utter surprise on Harry’s face before following him. He could feel excitement humming in his veins like wine. Perhaps it was not very _healthy_ to feel this way about a fight with Harry, but he did, and he refused to smash it flat just because Harry might consider it inappropriate. He and Harry were still separate people, however much else they had come to share.

*

Harry looked around, impressed in spite of himself. He wasn’t quite sure how it had been achieved, but the light falling through the windows into Draco’s eastern room looked interspersed with panes of green and pale blue glass, making it cool and refined. Perhaps a spell he couldn’t sense, perhaps something in the windows themselves. The only furniture was several cushioned chairs scattered about the room, with a small wooden table in front of the hearth occupying pride of place. Draco dragged a pair of chairs towards the table with obvious intent, and then paused and glanced at him impatiently when Harry stayed on his feet instead.

That look reminded Harry that he was irritated with Draco, and that he had a perfect _right_ to be, after what Draco had done to Pansy. “I won’t sit down, Malfoy,” he said, and started to pace back and forth. “I need room for a row.”

Draco folded his arms. His face was expressionless. “Will you tell me that everything you’ve done in pursuit of this bond has been perfectly moral and right, _Potter_?’

“You know perfectly well it wasn’t,” Harry retorted in irritation. “But at least I never tried to control Ginny’s mind and turn her into a worthless pet who couldn’t find a reason to object to us being together.”

“Yes. A pity, that.” Draco crossed his legs, too, and leaned back against the mantle above the fireplace. “It would certainly have made things easier.”

Harry growled at him, and was taken aback when Draco did nothing but offer him a slow, cool grin.

“It’s still wrong,” Harry insisted. “Selene said that people put under that level of Veela allure usually never recover.”

“Hm.” Draco examined his fingernails for a moment, then shrugged. “That might be true. And if so, then I’m a bit sorry. I don’t want a slave, I have house-elves. But I did want to make Pansy so devoted to me that she wouldn’t interfere in what went on between us.”

Harry remembered Pansy’s face again, and had to turn away from Draco, his belly squirming with nausea. “She’s like a puppet, Draco,” he murmured. “She has no will of her own anymore. Did you really do this just to get her to tell you where she’d hidden those photographs?”

“Partially,” said Draco, tilting his head back and half-closing his eyes. “And partially to make sure that I could eventually dump her as someone obsessed with me and no longer a fit spouse, when the news that I was Veela eventually emerged. I wanted other people to laugh at her and pity her, not consider her an example of an unfairly deserted wife. I _certainly_ didn’t anticipate that people would know I was Veela and that we were sleeping together the way it happened.”

“That news is out now,” Harry insisted. “So you can just push her out of the Manor. I don’t think anyone expects you to stay married to her.”

Draco snorted and opened his eyes fully again. “I admit, I also did it so that she couldn’t do anything else to interfere with us after I leave her. I’m somewhat surprised that she restricted herself just to taking photographs, in fact. Something more active was usually Pansy’s style.”

Harry flushed in spite of himself, remembering the list of things Draco hated that Pansy had given him.

Draco, of course, noticed. He straightened and stepped away from the mantle in seconds. “What, Harry?” he purred. “She _did_ something else, didn’t she? And this is another of those secrets you’ve been keeping from me so very stubbornly.”

Harry didn’t feel the slightest touch of allure on his free will, and yet he still discovered the desire to back up as Draco approached him. He stood firm, however, and even managed to ignore the light touch of Draco’s palm to his cheek, cupping it and tilting his head back for a kiss. When Draco’s lips were a few inches from his own, he murmured, “Yes. She brought me a list of your weaknesses. She wanted me to taunt you with them. But since she said that you hated being ignored most of all, that’s what I was trying to do to you at the beginning of June.”

Draco stopped, his nostrils flaring. Then he shook his head. “She deserves everything I did to her and more.”

“No, she _didn’t_.” Harry raised his hands and clenched them around Draco’s wrists. “Don’t you see, Draco? I held back on hurting you because it wouldn’t have been right. This isn’t, either.”

“You can’t expect me to agree with you on that,” Draco whispered. “I may have changed a great deal, Harry, but I won’t give up my moral convictions for you.”

“And I can’t give up mine.” Harry loosed a hissing breath, and then released Draco and whirled away from him in the same moment. “I don’t see how this can ever work,” he told the far wall. “I enjoy being with you in bed, and we’ve saved each other’s lives, but there isn’t really _more_ than that, is there? We might as well live apart from each other and never attempt to strengthen this bond, the way we go on.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Harry,” Draco said calmly, without, however, attempting to cross the floor between them and touch him. “I felt such a strong impulse to protect you from Pansy, and we’re obsessed with each other at the moment, because we haven’t bonded. Once we do, we can take notice of people beyond each other again, and I won’t see everyone else as an obstacle in the way.”

“But once we’re bonded, we’ll have to spend the rest of our lives with each other.” Harry swung around and looked at him critically. “And that doesn’t trouble you?”

Draco smiled slightly, his face as cool as the blue-green light. “Not particularly.”

“ _Why_?”

And then Draco smiled, and Harry caught his breath, and not at its beauty. Draco looked _sincere_ for the first time that Harry could remember, along with happy. He didn’t resist this time as Draco came over to him, took his hand up, and kissed the back of it.

“Because I have, apparently, more faith in this than you do,” he said, with only a slight trace of sarcasm in his voice. “Because I don’t think we have to solve every problem we’ll have in the next two months and expect that to be it for good and all. Because I think that we’re best-suited to each other, some of the time, when we’re arguing. Because I look forwards to disputing with you as much as I do having you all to myself for the rest of our lives. Because I don’t think not completely meshing and complementing each other is the worst fate a couple can suffer. Because we have time to learn the things about each other that we don’t know right now.”

And he brought an almost violent hand to the back of Harry’s head, and kissed him.

*

Draco was glad when Harry finally stopped talking and gave in enough to kiss him back. What Harry had been saying was exasperating, for all sorts of reasons.

How much did _he_ have to give up, anyway? How many scoldings did he have to endure, from the little Weasley and Pansy and the Howlers of people who were displeased with him?

This would work because, by this point, they really had no choice but to make it work. They had come too far to give up. They loved each other, fragile as it might be right now. They were not so completely different that Harry’s little temper tantrums of worry could drive them apart.

And still Harry acted and reacted as if the first crisis would make Draco abandon him, as if there were no chance that they could come to like each other as well as love each other, or as if they were of two different species.

Draco piled his frustration into his kiss, and then pulled back, leaving Harry looking dazed and happier than he had, long enough to say firmly, “I’m selfish, Harry. I care very little for strangers. I think myself above most people. I’ve always been like that, and I really see no reason to change.” He ran a caressing finger up and down Harry’s arm. “But none of that means I don’t love you, and none of that makes me impossible to live with.”

“It makes me wonder how you’ll treat Ginny, now,” Harry said, but his voice was softer, and he caressed Draco’s cheek as if he couldn’t help his own tenderness.

Draco shrugged. “I don’t see her as a threat. I would hate it if she tried to get you back, of course, but I also don’t see her trying that when she really has no chance. I _can_ get along with people, Harry. I just do it from a position of greater aloofness than you do, and not as warmly.”

“What you did to Pansy is--”

“Still wrong, I know.” Draco smoothed his hand down Harry’s arm. “But an important part of my life is to live it with no regrets. I can’t change what happened to Pansy. I’ll stop using the allure on her and turn her out, but I can’t change it. Will you let this stop you from being with me?”

Harry sighed, and bit his lip. “Won’t you be arrested anyway?”

“No,” Draco said. He wondered if he should kiss Harry again, but really, he was quite content to stand like this, simply talking, as long as Harry’s attention was fixed on him, and not sent elsewhere. “Believe me, after being sacked from my team simply for having wings, I’ve made _very_ sure of the laws surrounding Veela. Using allure on someone else is not a crime. For one thing, most Veela who are born that way can’t help it. For a second, the ones like me who appear at a later date often use it unconsciously and don‘t realize what‘s happening until people close to them begin to manifest the symptoms, and what’s the use of persecuting someone for magic they didn’t know about and couldn’t control? I’m safe.”

“I hate that you were sacked from the team for something you couldn’t help,” Harry growled, his eyes glowing dangerously.

Draco took a moment to revel in the fact that Harry was angry on his behalf right now, and not for the sake of the little Weasley or Pansy or anyone else who might have some claim on him.

Then Harry’s gaze darkened a bit. “Do you need…?”

“No,” Draco said quietly. “I haven’t felt the Veela at all this month. It’s gone, I think, or at least blended with me.” He leaned back, so that Harry perforce followed him, and guided him towards the chairs he’d been enough of an uncivilized Mudblood not to take. “I’d rather hear about Snape, I think, and why he hasn’t attacked you. And why did he come with Mulciber?”

“Oh, it’s a pattern that I’ve seen before,” Harry said casually, sitting in the chair across from him but not letting go of his hand. Draco hid a snicker. Harry would probably think he was making fun of him if he heard, rather than simply feeling proud and pleased at how casually Harry could accept that intimacy between them now. “Someone intelligent enough works behind the scenes, through a number of lackeys who take most of the risks and draw most of the attention. If they’re arrested, the intelligent person can always pick up and move elsewhere. The first former Death Eaters we caught in the year immediately following the war always had some plan like that. They’d intimidated other wizards into working for them, and eventually we caught the people who knew who they were. Alecto and the rest we captured in April may really have believed that their boss was Mulciber, especially if Snape lent him some of his power at times. Snape, of course, was controlling Mulciber and God knows how many others.” Harry stirred suddenly and looked at him. “But I can’t figure out why he attacked _you_.”

Draco’s lip twisted. “The days of our friendship are a long time behind us, Harry, or he would have let me know he was alive. And he swore an Unbreakable Vow to my mother to protect me, but that was only during the time I was trying to kill Dumbledore. I think he _was_ trying to put me under control with that illusion instead of kill me, but he wanted to kill _you_. That alone makes him my enemy.”

“I don’t want to force you to choose between him and me,” said Harry, looking _perturbed_ , of all emotions.

Draco leaned forwards, wound a hand firmly in his hair, and tugged on it. “You’re my mate,” he said. “I love you. I felt admiration for Snape, but this is different. There’s no choice for me, not ever again.”

Harry looked down at the tabletop. Draco smiled. Harry would just have to get used to the embarrassment of someone loving him first, caring about his welfare before all else.

*

Harry blinked a bit as he stepped into his office. The crumpled paper he and Ralph had always filled the corners with was gone. He wondered idly if Ralph had had to take on a temporary partner who had not understood the inherent practicality of cleaning up with charms instead of throwing every piece of parchment away at once.

Then he noticed Ralph’s desk was gone, and he suspected something else had happened.

“So you _are_ back.”

Harry swung around, automatically stepping back a little so that his guards would have room to maneuver, and then shook his head as he remembered that he could be without them in the Ministry. Ralph leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed, his eyes hot and angry.

“I am,” Harry chose to say, neutrally. “And it looks as though you’ve decided that it’s not worth your while to be my partner anymore.”

Ralph snorted bitterly. “ _That’s_ rich,” he said. “You can stand in front of me after cheating on one of the most beautiful women in Britain and accuse _me_ of anything? When I knew you were hiding a secret, Harry, I never imagined it was anything like _this._ I thought we were friends.”

Harry was silent for a long moment, studying his partner. Ralph had a deeper anger in his eyes than Harry thought could be accounted for by his secrecy, especially when he’d told Ralph he couldn’t tell him the secret unless the other people involved in it agreed. His crush on Ginny must have been deeper than Harry ever suspected.

“The way things fell out--” Harry began at last.

“ _Fell out_ ,” Ralph mimicked. He unfolded his arms and took an angry stride towards Harry. “No, you chose to make them fall out this way. You must really have wanted that bastard Malfoy, or why would you have cheated on Ginny?”

“First of all,” Harry said, his hand itching for his wand, “don’t say things like that about Draco.”

Ralph snorted again.

“Second,” Harry said, “I would have had a death on my conscience if I didn’t. That would be _better_ , I suppose?”

“Of _course_ it would!” Ralph exclaimed. “I mean, I’d feel sorry for anyone who had a Veela roused in him by a magical accident if it wasn’t someone like Malfoy. Do the words ‘former Death Eater’ mean _nothing_ to you? Have you forgotten that he’s just like the people we hunt? And that you could have caused pain to your wife, to a woman I would have been happy to have married--” He choked abruptly and stepped away from Harry, as though he hadn’t meant to say that.

Harry studied him in silence again. He supposed, in one way, that this was good for him. He’d had very little contact with anyone in the past two weeks but Draco and his bodyguards. There were people out there who would disapprove of their relationship simply because of Draco’s past and Harry’s title as the Boy-Who-Lived. He had to get used to them, he had to face them, now.

And this attack was sure to be milder than some of them would be.

To Harry’s own astonishment, he was calm in the face of it, without the contrariness that had driven him to Draco’s bed in August when Ginny had ordered him not to go. He was now sure that he loved Draco. Warily, yet, and not at all in the same way he had loved Ginny, but he did. And he was interested in him, wanted to see what would happen to him, and wanted to know what would change in his own life as a result of this. Accusations like this wouldn’t drive him away because he wanted to stay.

Besides, Ralph had not the least idea of what the situation really was, or he wouldn’t have made accusations like this. And instead of the impulse to explain, Harry regarded him with a bit of pity.

“Draco was cleared of all the Death Eater accusations by the Wizengamot,” he said at last. “He certainly never killed anyone during the War, the way I had to. He’s kept quietly to himself since then. He couldn’t help being Veela, and not all the decisions I made when I learned he was a Veela were made out of simple desire for him and a decision to betray Ginny.”

“You admit, then, that you _did_ want to betray her?” Ralph seemed determined to pounce on whatever slender bit of evidence he could find in Harry’s speech.

Harry was sorry for it. It seemed Ralph was more Ginny’s friend than his. But at least he had found it out like this.

“Maybe I did,” he said, shrugging. “I certainly enjoy myself more with Draco than I ever did with her.”

One of Ralph’s eyelids twitched violently.

“But that wasn’t the main part of it,” Harry said. “And I don’t think I have to tell you what the main part of it was, if you won’t be my partner anymore.”

Ralph gave him a look of disgust. “Do you really think _anyone_ in the Hermes Corps will partner you with now?”

“I assume that I’ll be partnered with a trainee,” Harry said evenly. God, it was wonderful to have control of his temper, to think that no matter what Ralph said, he had Draco waiting for him. Not that he would tell Draco what Ralph had said, of course; Merlin knew what Draco would do in retaliation. “If he couldn’t find me a partner at all, Kingsley would have transferred me to another part of the department.”

“What you did was wrong,” Ralph declared.

Harry shrugged.

Ralph’s breathing grew quick, the way it always did when he was frustrated. “Don’t you _care_?” he suddenly burst out. “Everything is going to _change_ for you now.”

“It already has,” Harry said, and sat down at his desk to work on the reports that Kingsley had assigned him.

Ralph evidently assuaged his feelings by stalking off in high dudgeon.

Harry let him go. After a few minutes, when he was sure his former partner didn’t linger outside the door, he laughed quietly.

_Let them do their worst. I really think I can stand it._

Besides, I refuse to have less faith in the future than Draco does. He can’t win that easily.


	20. November (Part One)

Somehow Harry wasn't surprised that, when Snape finally contacted him, he did it in such a way that the letter slipped past the Aurors entirely.

Kingsley had indeed partnered him with a trainee new to the Hermes Corps, a young woman named Melinda Jones, one of Hestia's cousins. She watched him with a bit too much hero-worship in her eyes at times, but she was a genuinely talented witch who would probably do much better once she stopped thinking Harry could do anything.

One morning in early November, she came back from fetching herself tea with a frown on her face. "I found this in my teacup between one moment and the next," she said, holding out a letter towards him. "I only looked away for a second, I would swear it. It's addressed to you."

"Did you check it for curses and hexes?" Harry asked, making no motion to take the envelope himself.

Melinda blushed and hastily pulled out her wand, running it over the envelope as she muttered several common detection charms. The letter flashed on none of them, but, as Harry told her, that didn't necessarily mean anything. He taught her the incantation and wand-movement for another of the charms, one practiced by higher-level Aurors, and her naturally pink cheeks turned almost red with gratitude.

None of the charms revealed a spell, however, and Harry took the letter away at last and slit it open with his thumb.

"Should you tell Kingsley that you received a letter, sir?" Melinda ventured then. She considered the regulations binding Harry to paperwork for the next few months silly, Harry knew, but she also heard daily lectures from other Aurors on the importance of sticking to Ministry rules so those they arrested had no ground to challenge them. Harry had a plausible lie ready, luckily.

"I shouldn't be telling you this," he whispered, "but this is from my wife, Ginny. She said that she might write to me. And if I tell someone else, well--" He grimaced and shook his head as if it didn't bear thinking about. "It'll be all over the _Daily Prophet_ at once, and the _best_ thing they'd accuse me of is having an affair with two people so I can be doubly unfaithful."

Melinda's nostrils flared. She had views, apparently, on the _Prophet_ and their never-ending permutations of the story that surrounded Harry and Draco. "You don't need to worry, then," she said earnestly. "As long as it's not dangerous. I'd never intrude on your privacy, Harry." She still flushed sometimes when she said his name.

Harry gave her a noncommittal smile and turned away so that she couldn't accidentally read the letter over his shoulder as she went back to her desk.

_November 4th, 2005_

_Potter:_

_You have been a nuisance to me since the day you were born. I suppose I should have realized that your irritation value would not diminish simply because we have assumed rather different positions in life._

_I require a meeting with you. You have made several mistaken assumptions with regards to me, and it appears that I have done the same, once, with you. If you are important to the man I swore a vow to Narcissa Malfoy to protect, then I do not wish to clash with you._

_Do me the courtesy of meeting me on the corner of your street at seven this evening, without any of your bodyguards about. I am sure that someone so skilled in mischief as you are can manage this plausibly. I will be dressed as a Muggle. I give you a Wizard's Oath to show you no violence._

_Severus Snape._

Harry stared at the letter for several long moments. His first impulse was to disregard it altogether, even though the sharp, spiky handwriting across the paper was the same sort he had seen on his Potions homework, and in nightmares, for years. His second was to send the Aurors after Snape, but he had no idea where the man was right now, and if he waited until this evening and tried it, he was certain Snape would see them coming.

His third impulse was simply to go alone--and then he was brought up short by the promise he'd made to Draco not to take insane risks anymore.

Hissing through his teeth, Harry leaned back. "Melinda?" he asked.

She jumped and looked at him over her shoulder; she must have been deeply interested in the report she was writing. Harry himself had missed out on the 'painfully earnest about paperwork' stage of a trainee Auror's usual development. "Yes, sir?" she asked, and then blushed. "I mean, Harry."

"Ginny wants to meet with me tonight," Harry said quietly. "Trouble is, I'll have two of the nosier Aurors with me, and I can't trust that they won't talk about it to someone, which will result in it getting back to the Prophet. I don't know how to shrug off the bodyguards and go, though."

"I don't think you should shrug off the bodyguards," Melinda said hesitantly.

"It would only be for a short time," Harry said. He was sure of that, at least. He and Snape had always been so volatile in each other's presence that their conversation, assuming they managed to have one, couldn't last much longer than the battles. "Could you help me? I know a glamour that could make you look like me for a short period, just two hours or so. And if you remained with my guards until then and then Apparated out, I would be the one who got into trouble. They'd think I was acting out, trying to get away from them. No one would suspect you."

"I--I don't know…"

"Please?" Harry looked at her with a begging expression on his face, and could see her intense flattery that the Savior of the Wizarding World would ask her for a favor. "It would be easy enough to slip away from them. I could go to the loo, and you could meet me there and come out with the glamour on."

"I couldn't talk like you, though," Melinda faltered. "And I wouldn't know anything they expected me to know."

"An auditory glamour for the voice," Harry said glibly. "And, well, you wouldn't have to say much. The Aurors on duty tonight know I don't like them, and they'll expect you to brood and not talk. I could key you into my wards so that you could pass easily into my house."

"But what if something happens?" Melinda insisted. "What if someone attacks you while you're in the street? I don't want you dead."

"I won't be alone," Harry assured her, and grimaced wryly. "Much as I don't like it, Draco Malfoy has insisted on being with me every time I meet my wife from now on. So he'll be there. I give you my word of honor on that. I'm sure you've heard how he killed Mulciber. I feel sorry for anyone who attacks me, frankly."

"I--" Melinda drummed her fingers against her desk for a moment. Harry thought that was more from the fact that she didn't know how to feel about the situation with both Draco and Ginny than because she was really deciding against helping him. "What if someone suspects me before the two hours are up?"

"Then you send me a Patronus with the message," Harry said. "You know how to do that, don't you?" Melinda nodded; the communication technique the Order of the Phoenix had once used had come out during the war, and was now a standard part of Auror training. "What's your Patronus?"

"A seal."

Harry nodded. "Then just send it to me, and I'll know that you had to leave, and I have to return as soon as I can."

Melinda smiled wryly, a more knowing expression than Harry had seen so far entering her eyes. "You're very persistent when you want something, aren't you?"

"I am," Harry said, unable to sound apologetic about it. "And you can even watch me write my letter to Draco, if you'd like."

"All right," Melinda gave in.

"Thank you," Harry said, leaning across the distance between their desks to squeeze her hand impulsively.

"Just see I don't regret it," she said, but the smile had a tinge of excitement to it now, and it occurred to Harry that having her as a partner wouldn't be so bad. At least she didn't show a tendency to blame him as Ralph had. Ralph would have gone along with this only if he knew it had Ginny's approval.

Well, Harry didn't intend to do this without Draco's approval. He turned hastily to pick up parchment and quill. It was not nearly long enough before he had to meet Snape, and he doubted Draco would appreciate being summoned by the pull of the claiming mark when Harry entered danger.

*

Draco thought about raging when he received Harry’s letter, but quite apart from the fact that there were photographers for the _Daily Prophet_ just waiting to snap a picture of him leaving in a fury and he’d frighten the house-elves, he knew it would do no good. The only choice he had now was whether he would go with Harry and perhaps manage to settle accounts with Severus, or whether he’d forbid Harry to go and end up settling them much more unpleasantly at some other time.

He wrote a curt letter back, telling Harry he’d be on Grimmauld Place an hour beforehand, under a Disillusionment Charm, and that if Harry even _thought_ of going to the meeting place without him, he’d Apparate straight to Kingsley Shacklebolt and tell him all about Harry’s little escapade. It was the best he could do. That, and try not to go mad for the rest of the day while he paced in rooms far apart from the front windows and scowled into mirrors.

He dressed carefully enough, in pale blue dress robes, as if he were going to one of the parties he’d refused all invitations to since throwing Pansy out of the house. He made sure to keep a cold and utterly disdainful expression on his face as he strode down the walk outside the Manor. He _hoped_ the photographers took some pictures of him looking like this. Perhaps they would make it to the front of the paper, and those who might think of bothering him about being a Veela, or troubling Harry, would think again.

He just barely remembered to cast the Disillusionment Charm before he Disapparated, and drew his wand as he landed. His head jerked slightly to the side, and he realized he could feel Harry’s presence. Also under a Disillusionment Charm, he thought, a few paces to his right.

Draco edged in that direction, watching out for danger. There was nothing as yet. Grimmauld Place looked like what it was, a dirty and poor street in the heart of Muggle London. Draco curled his lip. He would _insist_ that Harry come to live in the Manor when they were finally bonded. It was out of the question that he be separated from his mate by more than a few hundred feet in the first few months, and he was certainly _not_ coming to live here.

He reached out and felt cloth under his hand, just a moment before he also felt the tip of a wand pressing against his throat. Draco grimaced and whispered, “Harry. It’s me.” The final stages of the Transformation should have made his mate subconsciously familiar with his scent, but a fine thing that would be if Harry struck out defensively.

“Oh,” Harry whispered, and then reached out, drawing Draco close to him. This near, Draco could make out the blur that concealed Harry’s movements, though nothing of his facial features. His scent was stronger, soothing Draco’s instincts and making him draw in a few deep whiffs of it, so as to reconcile himself to the danger his mate probably stood in. “Why did you insist on coming an hour early?” Harry added.

“Why do you _think_?” Draco muttered at him. He cast a nonverbal spell that should alert him of the presence of anything human on the street, and how much magic those humans had. It only made three dull sparks glow in his mind, though, which would mean there were three Muggles nearby. “In case Severus set a trap for you, of course, or in case you decided to sneak off and meet him early.”

“I said I wouldn’t do that anymore.” Harry’s voice was full of indignation. Draco wished he could see his eyes. That would help him determine whether Harry simply looked angry, or vaguely guilty, the way he did when he was planning something he’d been caught at. “My death is your death. I _know_ that, Draco. I wouldn’t go into danger without you.”

“But apparently staying _out_ of it is too simple for you,” Draco muttered, and leaned against Harry’s shoulder.

Harry made an exasperated sound at him, and then turned his head so that his breath was falling on Draco’s ear. “Snape’s letter said that he’d explain himself, and he swore a Wizard’s Oath to use no violence.”

“Wizard’s Oaths only matter when they’re in words, and face-to-face,” Draco muttered. “They’re not binding when they’re written on paper.”

A long pause, and then Harry said, “Oh.”

“Yes, _oh_.” Draco leaned back against the house behind him and clucked into Harry’s ear. Let him shiver as Draco’s breath assaulted his ears—and from the way he squeaked in startlement, it was working. “We have really got to get you some wizarding education. I don’t know how you’ve lived in this world for twenty-five years and not learned the simplest thing about it.”

“Being raised as a Muggle for ten of those years had something to do with that,” Harry said in an acid tone.

“But you _knew_ you could use magic,” Draco pointed out in a long-suffering tone. He liked playing martyr, if only because Harry always reacted so beautifully. “You said the Muggles were relatives of yours. They must have told you about being a wizard, what it meant—the family history. Not the Potters’, of course, but your mother’s history.”

Harry snorted, and when he spoke next, after a pause, his voice held the bitterness of truths denied a long, long time. “They never said a word about it, Draco. They _hated_ magic. _Loathed_ it. Wanted to pretend it didn’t exist. I spent my first year with my parents, of course, but I couldn’t remember it. Then,” he added, with a catch in his voice. “I only learned about it when my Hogwarts letters started coming, and then I was too busy trying to keep up in school and save the world from Voldemort to do much research about obscure laws or whether Wizard’s Oaths are worth the paper they’re printed on.”

Draco blinked into nothingness. It was his turn to say, “Oh,” now, probably, but he didn’t want to sound as inarticulate as Harry had. Instead, he found and gripped his mate’s hand in silence.

He thought for a moment about what he could say. An apology would be out of place, but a heartfelt conversation now might drive Harry away from the sharing that Draco wanted to encourage in him. They hadn’t managed yet to talk about anything personal without exploding into an argument. Perhaps this had to be the same way, at least on the surface.

He made his voice as snotty as he could while still keeping it soft enough that they couldn’t be overheard from a few feet away. “Well, I’ll have you know that _I_ understood what it was to be a wizard from the time I was two.”

He could picture the astonishment on Harry’s face; the shoulder leaning against his stiffened, and the hand in his cramped as though Harry were about to pull it free. And then Draco heard him snort under his breath, and felt the crisp rustle of hair against his temple as Harry shook his head.

“Yes, you understood what it was to be a wizard,” Harry mocked lightly. “That would be why nothing _ever_ took you by surprise in Hogwarts, and you managed to show me up without trying each and every time.”

Draco hissed, but had to smile. They had barely talked over their pasts, either, even Dumbledore’s death or Draco’s time in the Inquisitorial Squad. If they were ever going to understand each other, they had to discuss it and move beyond it somehow, and this was as good a way as any.

“I understood the _important_ things,” he said. “How to address someone at a state dinner, for example.”

“Because there were ever so many of those at Hogwarts.”

“At least I knew other wizarding schools existed before Durmstrang and Beauxbatons appeared in fourth year. I even speak a little French myself, you know.”

“What do you know how to say?” Harry shoved his shoulder. “’Please help me, my hair is mussed and I’ve broken a nail?’”

Draco made a mock outraged sound. “I’ll have you know that I can ask for seven different kinds of complete meals and thank the servers politely each time.”

“That’s why I prefer plain food, and no house-elves. No one to thank.”

“You’ll need to get used to having house-elves again.” Draco leaned over to kiss the side of his neck. “It shouldn’t be hard, since you were oblivious to their existence for most of your career at Hogwarts. That was the real reason Granger’s SPEW never took off, wasn’t it? The house-elves ceased to exist for you as soon as they left your presence?”

For a long moment, Harry’s shoulder tensed again, and Draco wondered if making a joke about Granger had taken him beyond the pale.

And then Harry laughed, a long, gusting, tension-releasing laugh, as if he had been waiting for the day when he could look back at his memories of his best friends and joke about them with someone. He would never have dared that with the little Weasley, Draco thought with an odd sense of pride. Yet another sign of how much better he was for Harry.

“Meanwhile,” Harry said, with an odd sort of relish, “your mother’s side of the family is the one that hung up house-elf heads on the walls of their home. I suppose they didn’t _want_ to chance forgetting about them.”

Draco shoved him in turn. “Take that _back_ ,” he said. “The Blacks did nothing so horrid.” He thought that was true, at least. He couldn’t be entirely sure, since he did remember the empty places where hunting trophies might have hung in Harry’s house, and he had only ever visited it once before that, when he was too young to remember anything concrete.

“I will not,” Harry said. “Had to haul the lot of them away. The nastiest damn job I ever did, not counting hunting the Ravenclaw Hor—“ He paused for a long moment, then finished, “Well, this object of Voldemort’s.”

“I did _not_ need to know there was a Ravenclaw whorehouse, Potter,” Draco said, with a fastidious shudder, wise enough to know that now was not the time to pursue whatever Harry had nearly revealed.

Harry laughed again, and returned to the conversation. Draco followed patiently, soaking in what tidbits Harry revealed and letting bits of his own past slip through his fingers, drifting into Harry’s ears and mind, where he knew they would be well taken care of.

Perhaps someday they would both feel comfortable enough to talk openly about their pasts. For now, this would have to do. And given how much Harry seemed to enjoy it, Draco would have said it more than did.

*

Harry knew it the moment Snape showed up. He could feel a sudden increase of magic on the street, and the wards around Grimmauld Place, still keyed to him even though he’d also tied Melinda into them, suddenly spluttered and flared. He narrowed his eyes and stood straight, his hand curling inside Draco’s to alert him. Draco stopped dead in the midst of another reminiscence and looked around, then moved his free hand in a pattern that Harry knew meant he was drawing his wand.

“Where?” Draco breathed into his ear. Harry took a moment to enjoy the pure sensual pleasure of Draco’s breath sliding across his skin, as out of place as it might have been to do that.

“Corner, just like he promised,” Harry whispered back, and began to move down the street. He could see the figure standing on the corner now, the tall man he would probably have taken for just another Muggle if he hadn’t felt the powerful magic. Snape glanced quickly in several directions, then consulted his wrist and sighed, apparently just irritated that someone he had come to meet hadn’t met him.

Harry cast a quick charm to divert the eyes of Muggles elsewhere, and then removed his Disillusionment Charm. Then he murmured to Draco, “Maybe you should stay hidden.”

“Fuck that,” Draco snarled softly back at him. “We don’t want to make him nervous by thinking you didn’t keep your word not to bring the Aurors. Besides, he might have guessed that I’d come anyway.” And he made himself visible before Harry could argue further.

Snape’s eyes focused on them and narrowed. Harry lifted his head and met that dark gaze coolly. Once, it would have intimidated him; Snape seemed to have seen so much of life, and when Harry met his gaze, he was reminded that he was only a very little boy, after all.

Now, though, he’d been in the Aurors for four years, and he could see the way Snape adjusted his posture and used his height and the narrow thinness of his face to stare someone else down. He was still formidable, not least for the magic crackling through his body and his wand, but he was not invincible. Harry told himself to remember that, and to keep a firm grip on his wand as he halted five feet away from Snape.

“Potions master Snape,” he said, since the man had never gone back to teaching and therefore didn’t deserve the title of “Professor” any longer.

“Draco,” Snape said, and nodded to Draco first, simply to insult Harry, he knew. He held his peace. Such a tactic would have done damage to Ralph or any other of several Aurors, but Harry knew his target. Only then did he turn, and gave Harry that same coolly dismissive look that he’d used whenever they met during the war, touched with disappointment, as if he had expected better of Harry even when he should not have. “Mr. Potter.”

Harry said, “You believe I’ve made several mistaken assumptions about you. Correct them now.”

Snape gave a short sound that was not a laugh. “Demanding, are you not, Mr. Potter? It would be worth your while to be polite.”

“Shove your politeness, Severus,” Draco said, in a voice that made Harry glance at him in surprise. He found that Draco seemed several inches taller than usual and more _present_ , the way he had when Harry had first seen him after the Transformation, but this was meant to impress rather than allure. “You tried to _kill_ him the last time you met. Tell us what you came to tell us, and let us leave.” He put an arm around Harry’s shoulder and moved closer to him, radiating protectiveness. His free hand never let his wand go, and that wand was pointed straight at Snape, Harry saw.

He felt a brief wash of surprise, which pleasure immediately followed. He had someone who would watch his back—not just in the way of an Auror partner, the way Ralph had chosen, but because he was Harry. Because of friendship, and love.

When Harry faced Snape again, he found that his fear had vanished entirely. He raised an eyebrow and chilled his tone. “You heard him. _Severus_.”

 

*

Draco studied Severus in silence. He had lines on his face that hadn’t been there when Draco had seen him last, but since it had been seven years, that wasn’t surprising. On the other hand, Severus lacked the tension that had infected him during every Death Eater meeting, and even while he brewed when Draco was still under his guardianship. He simply watched in every direction and pointed his wand at every suspicious sound, which was practically normal in someone who had been Head of Slytherin House.

_You let me think you were dead. You tried to make me think my mother was alive the last time we met. You tried to kill my mate._

So many things that he wanted to say to the bastard, but probably none of them would win them answers. So Draco waited as best he could, and let Severus ponder what he wanted to say.

When he finally answered, his voice dragged, as if he had to choose his words more carefully around Draco than he would have done around Harry alone. “After the battle at Azkaban, I considered it worth my while to disappear for a time. I left enough evidence to make it seem as if I were dead so that I would not be pursued.”

He lifted his head, and _that_ gesture was familiar enough to Draco; he had seen it time and time again when Severus felt himself ill-used, even if the suspicion that fell on him had been entirely self-incurred. Draco clenched his teeth against the memories. No matter what Severus had done for him in the past, his allegiances had changed enough that Draco no longer felt comfortable trusting him.

“I had served masters for more than twenty years,” Severus said patiently. “I wished to have the freedom that so many children around me took for granted and used to so little effect, and the only way that I could have it was by convincing both the Dark Lord and the Order of the Phoenix that I was dead. So I did. I established myself not long after the war was won as a supplier of rare potions to those who requested them from me.”

“Including illegal potions, I suppose.” Harry was trying to sound bored, but Draco could feel a fine tremor traveling up his arm from the point where he held his mate. Harry, of course, as an Auror, would feel he had the right to be outraged about this. Draco was not so sure he did.

“Many of the potions the Ministry has made illegal have no side-effects that harm more than the wizard who takes them,” said Severus, and curled his lip haughtily enough that Draco felt tempted to tell him it would freeze that way. “So, yes, I made them.

“And then I made contact with Death Eaters who had done the same thing I had, and faked death to escape being hunted by the Ministry.” He gave a sharp laugh. “You have no idea how many of us came away alive from that field where you were convinced the best of us were destroyed, Potter.”

“But not my mother,” Draco said, undercutting Severus’s mockery as effectively as he could.

Severus cocked his head and regarded him for a long moment. His voice was gentler when he replied; of course, Draco had always suspected that Severus had something of a soft spot for his mother.

“No,” he agreed. “She would not stop trying to reach Lucius, no matter what I told her. And by the time I might have reached her side and stopped her, the Aurors were on the field, and I had to leave to save my own life.” His voice had a trace amount of regret, but it vanished in the next moment. “I was explaining to you what kind of life that was.

“I awed those Death Eaters who found me alive, such as Mulciber, and used them to control the ones who had survived the war but had no idea that I lived, such as the Carrows. I used them for as long as their innate— _tendencies_ —did not outweigh their usefulness, and then directed the Ministry towards them by means of subtle hints that looked more like carelessness on the parts of the brewers.” He nodded at Harry. “Mulciber was a different class of servant from them, however, which is why I did not at first interfere, and even lent him my own magic, when he tried to rid the world of you. Alas, it cost him his own life instead.” And this time he looked at Draco.

Draco lifted his chin and refused to look away. Severus wasn’t the only one who had changed, or the only one who had found a life that he wished to live.

Severus was the one who turned away after a moment, clearing his throat and focusing on Harry.

“Indirectly,” he said, “I am the one who has led to many of your best arrests over the years, by being in such a position that I could give you those I no longer had a use for.”

“And how many innocent people did you hurt?” Harry asked, in a voice that rose like a growl from the middle of his chest. “How many suffered from your potions and the depredations of the Death Eaters before you decided to rein them in? Fenrir Greyback has infected at least three dozen people in the past four years. You don’t care for what they suffer, do you?”

“And who has cared for what _I_ suffered?” Severus asked, barely moving his lips. “I was telling you only why it might not be in your best interests to remove me from my position, Potter, since I am the one who can funnel new arrests towards you, and since I control what would otherwise be a dangerously disorganized form of business. I shall leave _you_ alone from now on, now that I know you are important to Draco. You need not worry for your safety at the end of my wand, nor fear that any of my servants will hunt you other than in the ordinary course of battle.”

The offer sounded fair to Draco, actually, especially since it had the potential to make Harry look better as he made more and more arrests. He tightened his arm around Harry’s shoulders, silently urging him to take it, and hoping he would understand.

“I can’t let you do that,” Harry said softly.

That was the only warning Draco had before his mate twisted away from him and began to fire curses.

*

Snape was prepared, of course, and managed to conjure a Shield Charm in the right place to deflect Harry’s first curse. But Harry had planned out the battle in his head as he listened to Snape’s rambling excuses, and he used the spells in the exact sequence he’d chosen, an unpredictable one that didn’t resemble any he’d regularly used in battle for the past few years. If Snape had been watching him and knew his usual tactics, Harry planned to deprive him of that advantage.

Therefore, Snape was taken by surprise when Harry flung several burning curses at the same weak point of the Shield Charm, fracturing it, and making one of them dive through to him at last, on the wand hand. His wand went flying, and Harry swiftly scooped it up with a Summoning Charm. He saw Snape’s eyes narrow slightly, and knew he was probably reaching for a potion next, or attempting some wandless magic. Harry didn’t plan to give him the time.

He flung a Body-Bind with the same will behind it that he used to resist the Imperius Curse. The Body-Bind settled on top of Snape, tying up both his body and his magic. He collapsed to the ground, his arms wrapped around himself, his eyes rolling back in his head. Harry cast a Stunner at him just to make sure. He could be feigning unconsciousness.

He stood in silence for a moment, or at least as much silence as his own rapid heartbeat and breathing could offer. Then he heard Draco shifting his weight, and he came a bit nearer. Harry turned to face him, expecting a lecture for having dared to fight his own battle.

“Harry,” Draco said, his voice as soft as a falling feather. “Let him go.”

“No,” Harry retorted, without even having to think about it.

Draco reached out and ran the back of his hand over Harry’s cheek. Harry ducked the lulling gesture, insulted. Did Draco think he really turned into pudding every time he was touched?

“Harry,” Draco whispered. “For the sake of what he once meant to me. For the sake of what he’s done for the Ministry in the past. For—“

“You heard him,” Harry snarled. “He didn’t care what harm his minions did as long as he could discard them when he wanted to. It’s the exact same philosophy Voldemort had.”

Draco stepped back as if Harry had struck him, and spent a short moment looking as if he were counting under his breath to keep from getting angry. Harry stooped over Snape again and looked at him carefully, his wand still at the ready in his hand. The man’s eyes were rolled back in his head, but with as many tricks as Snape had pulled in the past to convince Voldemort he was still on his side, that meant nothing, either.

“I suppose this is the self-righteousness that Weasley scolded you for?” Draco said at last.

“I suppose it is,” said Harry, and Levitated Snape into the air. He knew there would be no hiding it when he took him into the Ministry; Kingsley might well sack him. But he would rather be sacked than let someone like Snape, someone who was probably responsible for half the Potions distribution the Ministry dealt with if what he said was true, remain free.

“You don’t care at all, do you?” Draco asked.

“About his excuses? No.” Harry paused and looked at him. “About what you said? Yes. But only because _you_ said it.”

Draco now looked as if he couldn’t decide whether to be pleased or irritated. “Things will be easier when we bond,” he breathed, in what sounded like the first part of a mantra.

“Not less argumentative,” said Harry. “Never that.” He cocked his head at Draco. “Assuming that Kingsley lets me out of the Auror equivalent of detention within the next few days, I’d like to see you again. I enjoyed the conversation—well, the argument that we had before Snape appeared.”

Draco opened his mouth, then shook his head and gave Harry a resigned smile. “All right, yes. Come to dinner at the Manor, if you don’t mind entering a place where you can’t Apparate out easily.” He lifted his head, as though he were prepared for Harry to refuse.

“Now that your wife isn’t there to give me dirty looks, I accept,” said Harry, with a mocking little bow of his head, and then Apparated away with Snape in tow. He was pleased that Draco, Slytherin ethics though he might have, at least understood what Harry valued—and why he valued it.


	21. November (Part Two)

Draco opened his door himself the evening that Harry was due to arrive, and had to laugh at the hangdog look on his mate’s face. It was only partially caused by the raindrops clinging to his hair, courtesy of a sudden shower. “Kingsley more difficult to appease than you expected?” he teased, taking Harry’s cloak himself so that he had an excuse to touch him. Harry, wet or not, still radiated a warmth and strength that made Draco want to wrap himself around him.

“Yeah.” Harry tilted his head back and nestled the nape of his neck briefly into Draco’s hair. “I’m on parole, essentially, for six months. He couldn’t do much more than that, though, since I had the bad taste to actually _capture_ someone whom the Ministry wanted pretty badly.” He twisted around so that he could kiss Draco, and Draco felt a frisson of even deeper warmth move through his belly. “It turns out that we have known Snape was alive, under different names,” Harry murmured into Draco’s mouth. “Kingsley knew any punishment he gave me would be all over the papers in a matter of minutes, and God forbid that we give the idea of a rift in the Auror Department to any outsiders. So I can work again, as long as I have the bodyguards with me most of the time, and as long as I understand that one more mess like that will result in my training new Aurors for the next ten years.” His voice slid into a gruff imitation of his superior’s on the last few words.

“It sounds like you need to forget,” Draco murmured back. “Dinner is ready, but the house-elves can keep it warm. Come to bed?”

Harry smiled up at him, eyes brilliant with more emotions than just lust. “Don’t mind if I do,” he breathed.

*

Harry was starting to wonder just how many ways he and Draco could be together in bed. He didn’t tend to separate the times he and Ginny had been together; they blurred into one great blob of satisfaction and cheer and giggling lust. Humor had always been a part of their sex. Ginny hadn’t been afraid to joke with him in bed, and that had been one of the things Harry best loved about her, the fact that she didn’t have much of a temptation to take herself seriously.

With Draco, it was different each time—more serious, but never _simple_ , and each encounter stood out in his mind. There had been the urgency he’d felt the last time they made love, the simple animal glut of it, when his own orgasm and sharing pleasure with Draco had been equally important goals in his mind. There had been the heated rebellion of the time before that, as he tried to show both Draco and himself that Ginny couldn’t tell him what to do any more. There had been the time before _that_ , when he simply yielded himself to Veela allure in hopeless weariness with everything else in his life.

And this time—

This time, there were more smiles than ever before. Draco touched him more gently, gaze fixed on his face, cupping his cheek as Harry sucked him off. He let his back arch more naturally, his eyes widen, gasps escape his mouth that Harry knew would have been shut up and imprisoned just a short time before. And Harry knew him now, and understood his body, including the way his muscles began to tremble just before he came. Harry sucked a little more strongly then, flicking his tongue delicately over the head of Draco’s cock. Much as he had learned to enjoy this, he’d already been at it for several minutes, and his jaw was starting to ache.

“Wait,” Draco croaked suddenly.

Harry stifled the flare of fear that he’d done something wrong. Draco wouldn’t be shy about telling him so; he’d already cursed Harry several times for using his teeth. He sat back and looked up at him.

Draco watched him in silence for long enough that Harry was tempted to squirm. He didn’t. He held his peace and his posture, kneeling naked on the fine carpet of Draco’s bedroom. Draco lay on the bed above him, his legs still hanging over the side and sprawled wide open, but his upper body propped high with his elbows now.

“I want to try something new,” Draco murmured, and reached for him. Harry rose to his feet hesitantly, watching in suspicion that he couldn’t hide even from himself.

“No penetration yet,” he said sharply. “I’m not ready.”

Draco grinned at him, and murmured, “Ah, but part of the point of this is to _make_ you ready, to get you to enjoy it, isn’t it?” And before Harry could respond, he drew him down and started kissing him with force.

Harry made himself relax and kiss back. He trusted Draco not to push anything on him before he was ready.

He _trusted_ Draco Malfoy.

Sometimes, when he thought about it, the oddness of his life truly galled him.

Draco rolled them over so Harry was beneath him, and Harry gave a small grunt of satisfaction. He wasn’t ready to admit it, yet, but he _did_ enjoy Draco’s weight on top of him, sheltering him in warmth, surrounding him in heated skin until he found it hard to think about anything else. He grabbed Draco’s hair and tugged it several times, maneuvering his mouth back down for a more successful kiss.

Draco resisted, though, and turned his head so that he could breathe into Harry’s ear. “Turn over.”

Harry froze.

“Not for that, I promise,” Draco said. He rubbed soothing circles on Harry’s shoulder. “I simply want to show you something. Something that should feel _very_ good and ease your nerves, without requiring the full bonding as yet.”

Harry took a deep heft of a breath, reminded himself yet again that he trusted Draco—though God knew why—and rolled over. Draco lay down on top of him again, and Harry bucked in pleasure. For some reason, the same warmth and weight he enjoyed on top of his chest felt even better this way, with Draco’s elbows sliding sweat-slick along his ribs and his erection—

His erection butting up, gently rubbing, against Harry’s arse.

Just rubbing.

Harry thought he might understand what Draco wanted now. He gave a breathy groan, and then Draco gripped his hips, holding him in place, and heaved him up the bed so that just his head emerged from the cocoon of heat that gripped them both.

Draco began to thrust, gently at first, but picking up speed. Harry wondered for a moment why the pressure as well as the speed seemed to change, and then realized he was thrusting back against Draco, arching his shoulders and twisting his head in encouragement.

His face flamed. He might have stopped if he had been able to think clearly. But Draco’s cock pushed against him, again and again, and each time it did, it sent clear thought scattering. Harry dug his elbows into the mattress to give himself more purchase and once again pushed back, and pushed, and pushed.

Why shouldn’t he be uninhibited, if he liked? Why shouldn’t he act like a slut, if he wanted? It was not as though there was anyone else here to see him do this.

And from the sound of the moans and near-sobs in his ear, Draco certainly wasn’t complaining.

Harry raised himself a little further and snaked one hand under his body to get at his own cock; the pressure from the front wasn’t _quite_ enough to get him off. And then one of Draco’s hands slid off his hip and underneath him, joining him in pulling, tugging, jerking.

Their motions sped up by some silent agreement that Harry didn’t remember making, and then Draco gasped and stiffened, a warm stream of liquid splattering Harry’s bollocks and arse. Harry hoped Draco didn’t realize it was _that_ , more than the hands on his cock, that carried him over the edge a moment later. He dropped bonelessly to the bed when the pleasure ceased to wrack him, and tried to remind himself that dinner was waiting, so he couldn’t go to sleep. He had been hungry when he arrived, but his eyelids insisted on dropping anyway.

Draco kissed his shoulder. “I love you,” he murmured.

Harry managed to open his eyes, and he rolled over, trying not to care about the mess he’d just smeared across the sheets. Draco probably didn’t care, he reminded himself as he stared into his partner’s eyes. “God, I love you,” he said, and couldn’t help the note of wonder and surprise that crept into his voice. Once again, he was trying to think back on his perspective several months ago, when the mere _prospect_ of doing anything more than jerk Malfoy off while avoiding eye contact would have disgusted him. Now, he couldn’t find his way back to that place; now, his love for Draco simply seemed natural.

*

Draco felt a shimmer of heat travel through his belly, and regretted that his body wouldn’t be up to another go so soon. He kissed Harry, lingeringly, then pulled back. “The house-elves will probably be upset if we stay away from dinner much longer,” he murmured.

Harry nodded and stood, looking around for his robes and his wand, probably to spell the come off him. Draco, who had his wand to hand, flicked it and removed the mess, but pulled Harry in to his side when he would have reached for clothes. “You don’t need them,” he said. “I’ve put wards up so that Pansy can’t enter the house, and no one else ever comes here without my permission.”

Harry blushed. “So you want us to eat naked?”

“Why not?” Draco pushed him gently back into the rumpled bed. “And we can have dinner in bed, too, if we’d like.”

“I just—“ Harry ran a hand through his hair. “That feels _decadent_ , somehow.”

Draco laughed and folded his arms beneath his chin as he snapped his fingers to summon a house-elf. When one appeared, he gave it orders to bring the meal into the bedroom in manageable, limited portions, while Harry shielded himself with a sheet. Draco snickered when he looked at his mate again. “They don’t actually care about human nakedness, you know,” he had to point out. “We aren’t at all physically attractive to them.”

Harry scowled at him over the top of the sheet.

“And, yes, it’s decadent.” Draco picked up Harry’s right hand and began to kiss the fingers, watching the way Harry’s eyelids fluttered languidly as he licked down and in between them. “Think of it as something essential about me, something you can’t change. You’re the heroic Auror who rescues wizarding society from itself, and I’m the decadent aristocrat who does things like eat fifty Honeydukes chocolates a day if that’s what he wants.”

“Ugh, that’s it, that’s the end of our match,” Harry declared dramatically, withdrawing his hand as the elf reappeared with trays of soup. “We’ll never be compatible enough. The most I can eat is forty.”

Draco laughed at him, and watched in interest as Harry very obviously attempted to conceal another erection. “But I’ve always wanted a lover with your stamina,” he murmured. “Do you want to wait on the meal?”

“No,” Harry said, and picked up his spoon, sipping his soup in a large and obvious slurp that made Draco shudder. “I have to keep up my energy, you know.” He grinned at Draco and then licked his lips.

Draco attended to his own soup with a will at the reminder, telling himself sternly that he could throw Harry down and have his way with him in a _little_ while.

*

“What’s that?”

Harry turned his head to grin at Melinda. They’d had something of the closeness of co-conspirators ever since she managed to impersonate him successfully; Kingsley was convinced that Harry had simply used an illusion or a Confundus charm to convince the Aurors that he was still in the same place when he’d actually escaped, rather than using someone to impersonate him, and Melinda seemed to enjoy the thrill so much that she didn’t mind he’d lied about meeting Ginny. “A gift from Draco,” he said, and held it up so that she could admire it.

“It’s very…silver,” Melinda said diplomatically. She seemed to have lost her awe of him at last, and Harry liked her better for it. Her cheeks remained flushed, though, since she was Hestia’s cousin, and pink cheeks seemed to run in the family. Now her frizzy black hair bobbed as she examined the gift Draco had sent by owl post that morning with a slight frown. “What does it do?”

“I have not the slightest idea,” Harry said, and set it in the middle of the desk. “The prat didn’t include a note with it.”

The silver thing seemed like a machine, with a number of curving pipes that flowed into one another and small knobs that could be twisted. Harry twisted one of them. A small gush of steam rose from another part of the machine, and several tempting clicks echoed from inside it. Then a tinny music began to rise up from the center of it. Harry leaned closer, but he didn’t recognize the tune.

“I know that one,” said Melinda, looking surprised. “I heard one of the mothers we rescued not long ago singing it to her baby.”

“A lullaby?” Harry muttered.

Just then, probably as the result of a time-delayed spell, a note materialized in thin air over the largest tube and drifted downwards. Harry caught it and read it, at the same time absently catching the white Veela feather Draco had included with it. It rubbed gently against his skin, warm and sweet-smelling.

_Harry:_

_I know that you don’t rest well some nights, especially when I’m not there to comfort you and hold you and soothe you to sleep. So I sent you this machine that always soothed me when I was a baby. The music is a lullaby that my mother used to sing to me. I would demand to hear it twenty times a night, so she finally enchanted this thing—one of the Malfoy family heirlooms that was terribly expensive but not terribly useful—to sing it for her._

_Don’t worry about what the other knobs and tubes are for. Most of them don’t do anything. Once you figure out how to make it sing—as you should have if this note appears, though it might also appear to help you if you’re completely backwards and stupid about it all—then you’ve learned its major purpose._

_Consider it a permanent gift._

_Love,_

_Draco._

The song had stopped in the meanwhile. Harry twisted the knob to start it again. He didn’t know what Narcissa Malfoy’s voice had sounded like when she sang; he didn’t know, therefore, if the music was actually a good approximation.

He didn’t care.

“You’re grinning like a fool,” Melinda informed him gently.

“Don’t care,” Harry said simply, and listened until the song ran out before he returned to work. Draco had told him he intended to enter a period of intense courting once Harry was no longer in danger from Snape.

Harry intended to keep up with him as best he could.

*

Draco regarded the envelope from Harry curiously. It felt a little thicker than normal, but he couldn’t make out more from the outside than that the unusual thing inside it was square. He slit the envelope open and shook it into his hand, already nearly dying of curiosity.

It was a photograph, a wizarding one. In it, a red-haired woman and a black-haired man whom Draco knew at once must be Harry’s parents stood holding a green-eyed baby. Harry gaped at the camera, stretching his arms, struggling to be let out of his mother’s arms as if he knew instinctively that it wouldn’t hurt him.

Draco swallowed a lump in his throat and looked at the letter. It was very simple.

_I know that you’ll take good care of this for me, love._

_Harry._

No mention of trust or confidence. Apparently, Harry’s trust was so deep that he saw no need to refer to it directly.

Draco propped the photograph up on the mantle and sat back to watch it, trying to ease the delightful shivers that gushed up and down his arms and seemed to meet in his belly. When a message from the private Healer that he’d hired to look after Pansy arrived, he answered it as swiftly as he could, in irritation, and then returned to staring at the picture.

He wished he could have met James and Lily Potter. As it was, the most he could do was murmur, “I’ll take care of him. I promise.”

It occurred to him, about an hour later, that he might, just possibly, be in danger of becoming sentimental.

*

“You don’t really need to watch him anymore. I’ll escort him home.”

Harry’s Auror escort—consisting of Tallow and Selene, again—only had time to blink before Draco had gently but firmly taken Harry’s arm and Apparated them away. Harry relaxed, leaning into the Side-Along Apparition despite the fact that it made his stomach feel as if it had turned inside out, and glanced around curiously as they landed with a bump in a familiar room.

“The Phoenix’s Nest again?” he asked, mildly impressed. “Draco, you shouldn’t have.”

“Well,” Draco said, and guided him towards the table, where he pulled his chair out for him as if Harry were a girl, “we never _did_ get to finish the last meal we had here, due to Severus’s unfortunate interruption, so I wanted you to see that I _do_ know how to treat a bloke.”

Harry considered glaring and refusing the courtesy, but Draco’s eyes were shining, and if the appreciative gaze on Harry’s face was any indication, he really didn’t _want_ a woman to be here with him. So Harry sat down, let Draco push the chair in, and didn’t even object to the napkin that Draco tucked into his collar before retreating to his seat on the opposite side of the table.

He _did_ object when the food arrived.

“ _Oysters_?” Harry shoved his plate away from him. “Oysters should stay on the bottom of the sea where they belong and stop polluting the tables of decent people.”

“Hmmm.” Draco picked up the nearest oyster and waved his wand at it, casting a spell that Harry assumed was nonverbal, since he prided himself on his hearing. The oyster’s shell neatly opened, what was inside slid out, and Draco caught and ate it, merrily ignoring Harry’s disgusted glance. “It’s really very good.” He glanced up, and though he was smiling, it didn’t reach his eyes. “Certainly much better than the food I had to eat after I refused to kill in the Dark Lord’s service and he imprisoned me.”

Harry’s eyes widened. Then he picked up the next oyster and cast a spell that weakened the shell and allowed him to pry it open. Not nearly as elegant as Draco’s solution, of course, since he still had to scoop out the meat inside, but it was important to show that he took this seriously.

“Hmmm,” Draco said again, and smiled at him, a smile rich with promises for later. Then his face cleared and his eyes turned inwards. “I don’t think you knew that, did you? That I was little more than a disappointment to the Dark Lord, who ignored me after Severus lied and bargained to spare my life. But one day, he decided he’d had enough of me. I was to kill one of my schoolmates, who would be an easier target than Albus Dumbledore _and_ someone more on my level. Supposedly an easier task.” Draco licked his lips. “He couldn’t have found anything harder.”

Harry, who had been forced to kill two of his own Gryffindor schoolmates who’d turned traitor, reached out and clasped his hand. Draco turned it upwards, meeting Harry palm to palm and entwining their fingers.

“It was Mandy Brocklehurst, from Ravenclaw,” he said distantly. “The Dark Lord pretended it was a mercy, not to have me kill someone from Slytherin. He made me spend an hour talking to her before I tried, and then I was supposed to pick up my wand and speak the Killing Curse. That was supposedly a mercy, too, that he wouldn’t make me torture her first, or kill her with some nastier spell.

“I looked into her eyes, and that was the moment I _knew_ I wasn’t a killer. Maybe I could have excused it with Dumbledore, due to shock and excitement, but I’d had all the time in the world to prepare, I could take all the time to kill her I liked, and I still couldn’t do it.”

Harry wanted to apologize, again, for forcing Draco into killing when Snape and Mulciber had attacked them, but he held his tongue. He sensed Draco simply wanted to tell this story, without interruptions.

“I threw down my wand and simply knelt there. I thought I’d die. But evidently the Dark Lord believed he could still use me as a bargaining chip with my father. So he simply tortured me.”

Draco used his free hand to undo the sleeve of the hand Harry held. Harry looked down and saw an old scar tracing steadily up his skin, along the vein. He’d seen it when they made love, but assumed, without thinking about it, that it was an old Quidditch wound; he had a few like it himself where splinters had dug in.

“He made me bleed nearly to death numerous times,” Draco said softly, “and cast a spell that kept me conscious and watching. That’s where I learned to live with helplessness, I think, and why I managed to put up with being a Veela so much better than you did at first.” He smiled humorlessly at Harry. “Do you know what it’s like to see death coming for you, and know you can’t do a thing about it? I learned.”

“I had no idea,” Harry breathed. He wished there was something he could do to make up for the pain Draco had suffered. If the bastard had been in front of him, he would have murdered Voldemort all over again, with a brand new hatred in his heart. “I knew—I knew you weren’t there when I killed him. I just assumed you’d spent the entire war under Snape’s protection.”

“Not quite,” Draco said softly. “Most of the beginning. I was with Avery in the few days before the end, when _he_ finally grew bored with me and gave me back to Severus.” He hesitated, then added, “I was scheduled to be executed the day after you stopped him.”

Harry kissed Draco’s palm, unable to say anything. They sat in silence until Draco delicately flexed his fingers, coughed to attract Harry’s attention, and sat back again.

“Now,” he said, “you know what would make me feel better?”

Harry leaned towards him with eager eyes.

“If you ate an oyster,” Draco said, and his face lit with an expression of humor that showed the old wound had mostly healed, “smiling like you mean it.”

*

Draco had known the confession was coming. Harry had spent the past several days peering at him earnestly and then looking away whenever he caught Draco’s eye, as though he hardly dared contemplate what he was contemplating face-to-face.

Harry had an innate sense of fairness, Draco knew. He could hardly let someone confess an intimate secret to him and believe that he shouldn’t confess something in return—at least, not someone who had treated him decently.

Draco had told the story because he truly wanted to tell it, but also because he had known he was likely to get a story from Harry in return. There was nothing wrong with having multiple motives, he told his conscience whenever it started to agitate about things.

It was still the last day of November before Harry gave in and told him, though. They were sitting on the couch in front of the greatest fireplace in Malfoy Manor, beneath a series of family portraits turned to the wall. Most of them had started jeering when they saw Harry was male, and the rest when they had learned that he was a halfblood. Draco could still hear their muffled voices, but he ignored them. There was no reason that he should have to put up with his ancestors taunting his partner.

Now Harry, who’d been lying with his head on Draco’s shoulder and one arm around him, stirred. Draco let him go, let him sit up, let him turn and take Draco’s hands and stare intently into his face, and all the while tried to act as if he didn’t know what was coming.

“I have something to tell you,” Harry began.

As it turned out, he really _didn’t_ know what was coming.

Harry quietly and hesitantly told him what his childhood with the Dursleys had really been like. Now and then he hastened to inform Draco that they’d never beaten him, never tortured him, never thrown him out of the house into cold and wintry weather to fend for himself. No, it had been mostly neglect. And insults, and forcing him to sleep in a cupboard and constantly compare himself to their son Dudley, and a persistent starvation that Harry tried to leave out of the story but which crept in anyway when he referred to food now and then.

Draco listened in silence, as Harry had done him the courtesy of doing, and then lifted Harry’s hands to his mouth and kissed them on the wrists when he had finished. He could feel Harry’s pulse going very fast beneath his lips. He rearranged them on the couch so that Harry was lying fully on his back and Draco was on top of him. It hadn’t escaped him that that position relaxed Harry and made his face open up, though he knew Harry didn’t want to show it. They _would_ be equals in the bedroom once the needs of the bonding had passed, but Draco didn’t think he’d ever tire of showing Harry that he was not only loved, he would be thoroughly pampered and taken care of.

“Thank you,” he said quietly. “Thank you for trusting me this much.”

Harry ran a hand through his hair, and Draco closed his eyes and purred, one of the few remnants of the Veela left to him. “Of course I trust you, Draco.” He sounded faintly surprised.

“I mean,” said Draco, opening his eyes, “that you both trusted me with one of the most painful parts of your life, and trusted that I wouldn’t hunt them down and kill them when I heard.”

Harry’s smile opened up another world of emotions for Draco, and he leaned down and kissed him thoroughly, giving them both something else to think about.

 _But not to forget_. Draco never intended that either of them forget anything they learned in this courting phase.

After all, this was one of the reasons that what they were building together would last.


	22. A Year's Temptation, Chapter 12--December (Part One)

“ _Draco_.”

“I can’t help it,” Draco murmured into the back of Harry’s neck. He gave a sharp lick, and even though it had come nowhere near the claiming mark, Harry felt his knees nearly give out. Only Draco’s arm, smartly curled around his waist, hauled him back to his feet in time. Harry shivered convulsively, and tilted his head to the side in spite of himself, so that Draco had more access. As the time of their bonding grew closer and closer, the simplest sensations were amplified, and Harry found he had less and less will to move out of the bed that they shared.

Today, though, he _had_ to. He was meeting Ginny—and Ralph—for the final signing of the divorce papers that would leave him a legally free man. Besides, he’d already had sex with Draco a few hours ago when they both woke early, and then endured some foreplay in the shower and had to turn down Draco’s offer of a blowjob with more will than any wizard should be required to display. If he didn’t go soon, it would all be for nothing.

“I want to know something,” Draco told him. “Just one little secret, and I’ll let you go.”

“Yes,” Harry said breathily, and then wondered if he should be saying, “No,” instead. _God_ , it was hard to think with Draco’s arms around his waist like this, even though the wall he pressed against, a cold tiled one in the Manor’s front hall, wasn’t the most comfortable place to relax. He coughed and tried to stand upright, pulling at Draco’s embrace as he did so. “What did you want to ask?”

“Why are you so afraid to let me take you?” Draco whispered, and turned him around at the same moment.

Harry froze, then snorted. “ _Take_ me? Draco, no one uses medieval language like that anymore.”

“It’s not medieval,” Draco snapped, stormclouds gathering in his gray eyes immediately, “it’s accurate.”

“You sound like a ponce.”

“I’m a Veela.” Draco had withdrawn in his anger, but now he shifted back, hands rising to clutch at Harry’s shoulders as if to demonstrate that a bit of a row couldn’t make him relinquish his mate. “And you’re _mine_. And you know that the first time, to consummate the bonding, I have to take you.”

“Could you _please_ use some other word?” Harry turned his head to the side to nuzzle Draco’s knuckles, in hope of distracting him. He probably didn’t have to leave _that_ soon to be on time for his meeting with Ginny and Ralph. He had an hour, after all, he was Apparating, and it couldn’t take _that_ long to search out one particular room in the Ministry.

“You don’t want to hear what words I’ll start using in a moment if you aren’t honest with me,” Draco said darkly.

Harry sighed. “All right.” He still remained silent for a moment, though, while debating whether he could trust Draco.

Well, of course he could.

But he trusted Draco not to betray him and not to break his heart, and not to do things that Harry considered morally wrong after Harry had talked very, very sternly to him about it. He wasn’t sure he trusted Draco not to laugh at him.

On the other hand, Draco was getting the look now that he got when there would be blood flying about in a moment.

“All right,” he repeated. “It’s—well, part of it’s fear of the pain, Draco.”

Draco made a low, purring sound in his throat, and his wings materialized with startling speed and swept around Harry’s shoulders. Harry relaxed, inevitably, and was grateful for it. He waited until the sound of his own breath had slowed so that he was no longer in danger of hyperventilating.

“I’ll be soft and slow and gentle,” Draco whispered. “It might hurt a _little_ , but you know I can make you feel good, Harry. Didn’t it feel good that evening in August when I used my fingers?”

“Yes,” Harry breathed. He was feeling light-headed, and if Draco had asked him to go to bed just then, he wouldn’t have resisted.

“What’s the rest of it?”

Like this, it was impossible to fear anything. Harry met his eyes in absolute trust and said, “I don’t know how it will make me react, since I’ve never done it before. I don’t know if I want you to see me that uninhibited.”

*

Draco draped Harry’s face with kisses, drawing him close until Harry’s face sank into his shoulder. Harry went along with it, managing to slip his arms around Draco’s waist and clutch him tightly, but nothing else. His breathing had deepened to just this side of sleep.

Of _course_ Draco should have guessed it would be something like that. Harry had held back with the little Weasley, been careful and delicate around her in the bedroom, and he would have done the same thing with Draco, if he could, except that Draco had never given him a choice from March on. He was a private person. He’d said that once before, when he first hinted at the truth about his Muggle relatives. He disliked the idea of not being able to hide something if he chose to, or felt he needed to.

It wasn’t that Harry foresaw any particular need for privacy in their sex lives, Draco knew. But it might be there, and if he couldn’t have it…

“I promise not to laugh at you,” he whispered into Harry’s ear. “You can’t be undignified to me, no matter how loudly you scream or what you look like on your back. You’ll only look _beautiful_. I know that the way I knew you were my mate.” His hands and his wings stroked Harry, and he manipulated the large primary feathers nearest Harry’s neck to curl up and brush the hair on his nape. “Hush. I promise.”

“Thank you,” Harry whispered, and Draco knew another barrier was down between them.

He retracted his wings, curious, for a moment, if Harry would straighten in outrage and demand that Draco never do that again. But Harry only looked wry, though his cheeks immediately turned the shade of plums.

“I have to go,” he said, and kissed Draco, and ducked out the door of the Manor.

Draco let him go with a smile. He was convinced, now, that it wouldn’t be long before he could get Harry to agree to the bonding.

A good thing, too. He was about to go mad with longing. The desire to touch Harry had grown to the point that he found himself reaching out in the evenings and running one finger down Harry’s claiming mark or his leg before he became conscious of it. He had to owl him almost constantly throughout the day to assuage his fear of being left lonely and wanting. The mere thought of someone else near Harry, never mind touching him, made Dark hexes dance on his tongue.

Just a little longer. Just a bit more.

The Veela had blended with him and was no longer a separate creature, but that meant its feelings and traits were Draco’s own, including its knowledge. He knew the intense need to have his mate, to possess him, would calm down after the bonding.

But it did nothing to calm him _now_.

Draco went back to the law books he’d begun scouring. He still wanted to play Quidditch if he could. To that end, he’d been looking up what material he could find on the ban against any winged magical creature playing on a Quidditch team. He’d manage to change the law—purely for his own benefit, of course—see if he didn’t.

And when he thought about flying, it was a little harder to think about how Harry tasted.

Now if only he hadn’t thought about the word _harder_.

*

“Ginny.” Harry greeted her with a slow nod of his head. He was relieved that she no longer looked as devastated as she had three months ago, when she’d laid down her wedding ring on the table in Number Twelve Grimmauld Place and walked out of his life.

He was also relieved that his broken relationship with her hadn’t disrupted his bonds with the rest of the Weasley family. He still visited Molly and Arthur—though Ginny disappeared every time he did—and he was still welcome at Fred and George’s shop in Diagon Alley and Bill and Fleur’s snug little house in Calais. Of course, if they could accept him back after he had been present at Ron’s death and done nothing to stop it, they could probably accept him after this.

The room they were meeting in, called, rather too neatly, the Separation Room, was a small one, with portraits of stern witches on the walls, but it had a large table in the center, so that the divorcing couple could sit well apart from each other. Ginny sat in a sea-green dress on the side furthest from the door, her head bowed and her long red hair hanging around her dark eyes as she watched him without expression. Ralph stood behind her, one hand on her shoulder, now and then shooting hostile looks at Harry, apparently because he thought Harry wouldn’t notice. He’d started dating Ginny last month, from what Molly had said, or at least appeared at her side as her constant comforter in need.

Harry sat down on the other side of the table. Since they’d both agreed to this divorce, and agreed as well, with a speed that he could tell the counselors found startling, on the fact that Ginny would get their little house and a small sum of money while Harry retained everything else, they waited only for the solicitor with the official papers to arrive.

Harry found himself watching his wife with an expression he knew was both wistful and fond. He wondered if the room had ever before seen a divorcing couple like them, as resigned as it was possible to be, their marriage torn apart by no force they could oppose.

Then he wondered if he was the only one who felt that way. Ginny might not.

He clasped his hands under his chin and studied her. She still looked beautiful. He could still look at her and remember moments they’d shared together late at night, in early mornings, at shops in Diagon Alley where Ginny was fond of making double-edged remarks in front of dimwitted clerks. They’d catch each other’s eye then, and Harry would struggle with all his might not to burst out laughing, which would _surely_ have told the clerks something was up.

He could wish things had been different, but he couldn’t really regret the choice. Ginny was a good woman.

Just not the right person for him.

“I need to speak with you when this is over.”

Ralph’s tight voice took Harry by surprise. He glanced up at once, but his former partner showed no sign of joking. He simply stared at Harry with a mouth pinched so furiously small Harry thought sucking on a lemon would have _improved_ it. He nodded, and looked back at Ginny. She had her head bowed as though studying her own reflection in the fine polished wood of the table.

The solicitor appeared in a few minutes, a tall witch with honey-blonde hair pinned back in extravagant curls which briefly reminded Harry of Rita Skeeter. She pushed the documents to the middle of the table, smiled at them both with a professional air, and then started separating the papers and explaining them.

“There’s a paper for both of you to sign saying that you agree with the terms that you have set—there’s another for you, Mr. Potter, giving you no claim on Mrs. Potter in the immediate future—and one for you, Mrs. Potter, no claim on him—and one stating that neither of you had a child in the marriage who must be provided for—and one stating that the cause of the divorce is exactly what you said it is—“

It was all remarkably simple, Harry thought, as he signed, pausing after each free-flowing shaping of his name to cross the two t’s in “Potter.” So clean, so soft, so light a procedure for something normally as bitter as divorce.

He had thought he would find it painful. But he didn’t. The thought of finally completing the bond with Draco was more frightening.

Maybe not so frightening now, but—

“Mr. Potter! Will you pay attention, please?”

Harry shook his head and concentrated on the forms; he’d nearly snatched one meant for Ginny. He glanced at her again, but this time she had the excuse of squinting at the parchment in front of her to avoid his eyes. He hoped she was happy. Maybe she could be with Ralph; maybe it would have to be with someone else. He wished she felt free to share her doubts, her emotions, and her concerns with him, but he understood why she wouldn’t. This divorce, resigned though it was, hadn’t been voluntary on her part.

Ralph had a muscle jumping in his jaw as he watched him. Harry raised his eyebrows at him and signed one last form, this one stating that he relinquished all property claims to the house they’d shared. He had no reason to keep them. He had the house at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place and the other Black properties if he ever ran short of shelter.

Assuming that Draco would let him live in them at all. He had already insisted, several times, that Harry move into Malfoy Manor. So far Harry had put him off, because he liked to have a place where he could sit and think without the risk of Draco’s intrusion, but Draco had promised him an entire wing in the Manor if he’d like it. And now that his bodyguards gave up at the door of the Manor as well as at the door of the Ministry, Harry found it more and more tempting.

His body responded predictably to the thought of Draco. Harry forced away the burgeoning erection with immense focus, and handed the last parchments to the solicitor, who gathered them up with tidy, economical motions.

“It’s been a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Potter, Miss Weasley,” she said, and she sounded sincere. Considering some of the cases she must see, Harry could understand why. “Please consider us in the future for all your divorce needs.” She gave a small bow and swept out of the room, her dark purple robes rustling behind her.

Ralph immediately bent over Ginny’s chair, and murmured something into her hair, or maybe her ear. Ginny lifted a hand and then let it fall back against the table, in a gesture so expressive of weariness that Harry wondered he’d never seen it before. Then she stood and followed the solicitor, never once looking at him.

Harry stood. Ralph advanced on him, and Harry hoped he didn’t intend to attack. Draco would come if he felt the call from the claiming mark, and he would probably hex Ralph before Harry could explain he wasn’t in any serious danger.

“You child,” Ralph said. His voice was soft, but shaking. “Do you realize how much of a wound you inflicted on her? She can barely stand to hear your name. She flees her parents’ house whenever you come over. What kind of man are you?”

“Someone who didn’t love her as much as you do,” Harry responded honestly. Ralph drew a bit back from him, eyes narrowed, as though hearing this kind of thing from Harry were a new experience. “She should have a chance with someone who can make her happy. I suspect you might be that man.”

“She _wanted_ you,” said Ralph, trying not to look pleased at the compliment. “She should have what she wants, don’t you think?”

“You think that because you’re in love with her,” Harry said. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I think the same way about Draco.” Then he hesitated, and further honesty forced him to add, “Well, most of the time.”

“I’ve heard of parents staying together for the sake of the children.” Ralph’s fingers twined tightly around one another. “I’ve never heard of a husband who should have stayed with his wife for her sake, but this situation fits that.”

Harry sighed. “And I’m trying to tell you that it doesn’t,” he said. “Ginny made me a speech in June about how she didn’t deserve a husband who treated her like a sacrifice. And she’s right. She _doesn’t_. She’s reeling beneath the wound right now, but that doesn’t mean she will forever. In time, she’ll remember her strength.”

“It would be better if you could look a bit more torn up, you know.” Ralph hovered over him menacingly.

“But I’ m not,” said Harry. “Besides, if I went around brooding, that would distress Draco.”

“And his mental health matters ever so much more than Ginny’s, doesn’t it?”

“It does to me.” Harry met Ralph’s gaze evenly.

Ralph stepped back. He seemed stunned for a long, hoarse moment. Harry stood with his arms folded and checked the distance between himself and his former friend. He had to hope it would be enough not to bring Draco charging in.

“Have you always been gay?” Ralph asked at last.

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “I’ve been in love with two people, one of each gender. That’s so confusing I’ve decided it’s better not to worry about it.” He risked a grin. “Besides, the papers will have much more fun thinking up what to call me if I don’t give them any clues.”

Ralph shook his head. “And taking up with a Death Eater—someone you hated in school, Ginny said. _Why_?”

“Because it happened.”

“And Harry Potter is always so obedient to the rules.”

“Not that,” said Harry. “But reality and rules are different things.” He gave Ralph a curt nod and turned away. If he stayed here talking much longer, either Ralph would directly insult Draco or one of Draco’s owls would show up, and either would probably start a fight.

He walked out of the Ministry with Ralph calling after him. It was obvious Ralph wanted Harry to feel as miserable as Ginny did, and couldn’t understand why he didn’t.

_They always did say that love is blind._

*

Harry blushed violently and hid Draco’s latest letter from Melinda’s sight. He wasn’t sure she was old enough to read the words he’d written, even if she _was_ twenty. He wasn’t sure _he_ was old enough to read them.

The bundle of flowers a second owl had brought now stood in a vase of water on the edge of the desk. Harry couldn’t make out what kind they were. They resembled roses in shape, but their color varied dramatically every few seconds, from deep red to green tinged with silver to violet and back to red again. Some magical breed, obviously.

Yesterday, Draco had somehow convinced a troop of fairies to follow Harry around all day, whispering obscene suggestions into his ears as he passed. To everyone else, it merely sounded like buzzing, but they took great interest in Harry’s blushes anyway—especially Melinda, who seemed to have decided it was her duty to tease him since Ralph had departed.

The day before _that_ , Draco had cast a spell before he left the Manor that made Harry feel a warm hand sliding up the inside of his thigh at inconvenient intervals.

It was all driving him quite, quite mad. And that Harry knew these things were happening because Draco, himself, was a Veela going mad with the need to properly claim his mate didn’t really make it much better.

Harry let loose a sudden, explosive breath, shoved his report away, and reached for a new piece of parchment. He had to do something about this, and since what he could do was limited, he might as well do it right _now_.

He wrote a short letter to Draco, then stood and went to find an owl.

When he came back, he found Melinda regarding him curiously. “What did _that_ say?” she demanded.

“Let’s talk about something other than my love life for once, why don’t we?” Harry suggested sweetly. “For example, what would you do if you were confronting two Dark wizards and one of them had just cast the Cutting Curse at you?”

“Uh.” Melinda blinked at the sudden change of subject and gnawed her lip for a moment before doing her best to retaliate. “Is the second Dark wizard in front of me or behind me?”

“One in front, one behind.”

“I suppose I’d rely on my partner to take care of the second one, then, since he’s just standing there uselessly, while I dodged or blocked the Cutting Curse.” Melinda gave him a challenging look.

Harry grinned. Melinda should work out just fine.

He would, of course, make it a point to harass her and shepherd her around overprotectively the first time she went into the field on a test raid. It was tradition.

*

Draco chuckled at Harry’s letter. It demanded that he divorce Pansy, since Harry didn’t fancy bonding with someone who still had a legal spouse. The whole _tone_ of the letter was triumphant, as though Harry had just come up with some insurmountable reason outside himself why the bonding couldn’t take place. Draco could practically imagine the expression on his mate’s face when he’d finished writing it; he would have sat back with his eyes gleaming, and though he wouldn’t have rubbed his hands together, he would have wanted to.

Filled with affection, it didn’t take long for him to owl his solicitor and ask for the divorce papers he’d already prepared. He’d held off on divorcing Pansy only because he wanted her mentally competent to make the decision _and_ conscious enough of what his Veela allure had done to her to actually agree. According to the private Healer he’d hired, though, distance from him had done wonders for her. She still went a little misty-eyed at the sound of his name, and they couldn’t meet again without his presence doing her great harm, but she could at least hate him in the abstract now. Draco was fairly sure she’d sign the divorce papers.

And then perhaps he and Harry could do something about the bonding.

Draco didn’t want his mate to feel pressured to, well, mate because of the Veela’s instincts. But the fact remained that he _was_ the Veela now, and that the pressure was affecting Harry just as strongly. The moans he made even when he was asleep caused Draco to be sure of that.

Abruptly, he straightened and glanced around the room thoughtfully. He was currently in the library, filled with the Dark Arts books his father had collected over the years and the straight and angular lines of old furniture that Harry had often curled his lip at and never sat in. His reaction to most of the rest of the Manor was the same, Draco knew. He liked their bedroom, but all they ever really did there was have sex and sleep.

Perhaps Harry would feel more comfortable in different surroundings.

Draco smiled narrowly and stood to search for a book that detailed house-decorating glamours. He could just tell the house-elves what he wanted and they would be happy to change the appearance of the Manor, of course, but it felt—important—that he be the one to do it. Perhaps that was the Veela instinct, again, with the idea of presenting a suitable home to its mate.

Draco couldn’t rebuild the Manor from scratch. But he could make Harry _think_ he had.

*

“Draco?”

Harry had expected _some_ response to his letter about Pansy before he came home that night, but there had been nothing. In fact, there had been no more teasing owls, either, or small gifts, as though Draco had suddenly grown bored of the whole game.

Perhaps he had taken the letter about Pansy more seriously than Harry had thought he would. Harry frowned. He had wanted to make Draco think, the way he always did when they were in the middle of an argument, but that was something very different from putting him off.

And now the Manor was silent and dark from the outside, though the wards still recognized him and the front door still swung open, unlocked to his touch, when he tried the knob. Had Draco had to go somewhere else to see about divorcing Pansy? Of course, he wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near her, but—

And then the door opened completely, and Harry stopped with his mouth hanging slightly open.

Subtle glamours, better than any he’d seen one of the Aurors or even their Dark wizard opponents manage, crowded the entrance hall. Harry knew they had to be glamours because it seemed so much changed from this morning. And yet, there were few changes he could _point_ to. The shadows seemed shorter and softer, the lines of the walls and windows more curved, the floor to whisper like silk rather than with a disapproving hiss as he strode across it. Harry squinted, trying to make out the magic, and couldn’t.

He looked into the study that opened off the entrance hall to the right, and found it changed the same way. It had been a bleak, cold room before, with green walls that made it resemble an icy cave. Now Harry could see the color the way the painter had probably intended it, with the warm blue tinge of a Mediterranean sea. There was a fire on the hearth, further projecting mystery and welcome into the corners, but no one he could see in the room.

“Draco?” Harry called out, his voice softer than before. He was not sure if he wanted to see his lover just now, or stand in solitude a few moments longer to enjoy the new effect.

“Right here, Harry.”

Harry turned, banging his shoulder against the doorframe with the speed of it. Draco arched an eyebrow, as much to say that he found Harry’s reaction interesting, and came a few steps closer. He wore cream-colored robes that Harry couldn’t remember seeing before, and his wings spread lazily from his shoulders, now and then wavering in and out of existence as if Draco couldn’t decide whether he wanted them.

“Why?” Harry asked, with a gesture meant to encompass the glamours.

“I thought the Manor might make you uncomfortable,” Draco murmured, stopping in front of him and tracing a finger down his cheek. “You do leave here quickly in the mornings. And you’re never comfortable in any room but one with a bed.”

“I,” Harry said, and then stopped and considered that. He was about to say it wasn’t true, but it _did_ come close. He’d always felt more tense around Draco in the Manor than in his own house, where he didn’t have to worry that he was about to ruin something priceless and hundreds of years old at any moment.

And even if Draco _had_ misinterpreted his behavior around the furniture as the cause of his reluctance to complete the bonding, the fact that he’d noticed, thought of what might make Harry more at ease, and then _done_ it…

It meant—more, somehow, than if Ginny had done it, as she had plenty of times. More, because Ginny had simply chosen to be with him, while Draco had chosen to against other pressures. And more, because Ginny was naturally a giving person, and Draco had had to learn how to be.

A warm bloom of feeling in Harry’s chest seemed to blind him for a moment, and then he moved forwards, looped his arms around Draco’s shoulders, and kissed him deeply. “I love you,” he murmured against his lips.

Draco kissed him back, and then moved away. Harry, who had reached to remove Draco’s robes, frowned at him, not understanding, particularly when Draco took a series of parchments from his pocket and dangled them in front of Harry with a smug expression.

“Divorce papers,” he prompted.

Harry felt a deep shiver move up his spine. “Pansy signed?” he asked, and his own voice sounded quiet and hushed and far away.

“She did. She can think rationally about what I did to her now—well, sometimes—and she signed them in a moment of lucidity.” Draco waved his wand, and the papers floated away from his hand to hang in the air between him and Harry.

“Is this going to be enough?” Draco’s face was direct, questioning.

Harry stood there in silence for long moments. Well, perhaps it was silence to Draco, but his own ears were filled with the sounds of his hurrying heartbeat.

Holding Draco’s eyes, he reached up and began to unbutton his robes.

Draco let out a soft hiss of relief, and then crossed the space between them so fast Harry couldn’t blink before he was pressed up against him, kissing the side of his neck and taking over the buttons. “If you don’t want this,” Draco whispered into his ear, causing warm, moist puffs of sensation that made Harry want to tilt his head to the side and whimper helplessly, “then tell me. I won’t force you, however much _I_ want this.”

“I’m sure,” Harry whispered back.

He still felt as if he had fallen off a cliff and were depending on Draco to catch him, but—well, he could depend on him to do that. He might be vulnerable, but Draco wouldn’t hurt him. He might be trusting insanely, but Draco was worthy of that insane trust.

Harry closed his eyes and let himself relax.


	23. December (Part Two)

Draco’s worry that Harry was only yielding for _his_ sake was squashed flat when he saw the sudden calm expression on Harry’s face, and felt the erection brushing against his own. Perversely, that made him have to slow, so that his hands wouldn’t tremble. He brushed Harry’s face with air-kisses, just above the skin, and Harry turned to follow them, murmuring happily now and then but not ever opening his eyes.

Draco could imagine nothing further from the hard-eyed Auror who had declared back at the beginning of the year, in January, that he didn’t like men and never would. The Veela inside him surged one more time, and then his head swam with thoughts, his and its, human and magical being.

He couldn’t tell them apart anymore. They were truly one.

As he and Harry were about to be.

Not caring even if Harry somehow read his intensely sappy thoughts, Draco drew Harry’s robes off. At one point, Harry stirred and reached up as if he would help, but Draco pressed down hard on his left wrist and forced his hands away. Harry blinked up at him once with sleepy green eyes, then nodded and let Draco do it.

He had to do it. He wanted to do it. Draco was not sure why, just that it was as imperative that he alone reveal his mate’s nudity as it had once been that he wrap Harry in his wings and hold him there.

Once Harry was down to shirt and trousers, Draco urged them both in the direction of the bedroom. Harry went willingly, following the direction of Draco’s hands on his neck and hip. Now and then he tipped his head back, to steal a kiss and give Draco a glimpse of his amused smile both, but Draco didn’t mind. Now he wanted to guide his mate, so he did. Now he wanted to lean forwards and fasten his teeth lightly in the skin next to the claiming mark, so he did. Now he wanted to spin Harry towards him and steal a kiss hard enough to make Harry’s knees weak, so he did.

At last they were next to the bed, and Draco could lower Harry flat. Harry rolled onto his back, shamelessly showing off his shoulders and his neck. Draco licked a long trail up to his ear before he could convince himself to pull the shirt off.

“You,” he whispered to Harry, “are temptation personified.”

“Shouldn’t I be saying that to you?” Harry murmured, opening his eyes just once as the sleeves were tugged around his arms. “Since most people are inclined to say it about Veela, after all, and not one rather scruffy Auror.”

Draco snarled at him. “I don’t like to hear you call yourself that.”

Harry didn’t look angry; more and more warmth came into his face instead, leaking from God knew what reservoir. Draco only knew he was lucky to have him. “All right, I won’t,” he said, and sat up to watch in interest as Draco removed his shoes, his socks, and his trousers.

For long moments, Draco left the pants on, staring at Harry as if something irrevocable would change when the final barrier of cloth between him and his mate’s skin was removed. Harry was the one who smiled at him, put his hand on Draco’s wrist, and drew the garment down.

Draco licked his lips so that he wouldn’t start doing something as undignified as drooling, and smoothed one hand up Harry’s thigh and then his cock. “You really are beautiful, you know,” he said.

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry said, and arched his back. “When are you going to get around to doing something that will make me forget any nervousness I still have?”

Draco smiled, and stepped back to undress.

*

Now that he was _here_ , in this bed, in this moment, Harry was finding it hard to remember why he had ever been afraid.

Oh, he could still blush if he thought about it. But worries and fears were both dead, burned, fallen away. He was much too intent on watching the way Draco casually undid the robes, revealing himself naked under them save for his own pants. He pulled those off, too, and suddenly they were equal.

 _I do believe that_ , Harry told himself. _He might be the one fucking me tonight, but that doesn’t mean he belongs to me any less than I belong to him._

Draco crawled on top of him, bearing him down in just that way Harry liked, and avoiding sticking his elbow into Harry’s stomach this time, which was even better. Harry stretched up, and they kissed. Harry let his tongue take its time in a leisurely exploration of Draco’s mouth, and Draco let a hand trail down, around, and over Harry’s hip, flank, ribs, and cock.

The last shreds of the calmness Harry had felt were burning away now, too, revealing intense excitement underneath. He had started to pant a full minute before Draco did, and his vision raced and swam with colors he wasn’t sure were real. He slid his palm over Draco’s face, the only way he could think of to express his full feelings, and kissed him again and again, trying instinctively to roll him over, because then Draco might do something instead of just lying on top of him and kissing back.

“Ah, not this time,” Draco whispered, and rearranged himself so that he lay like a dead weight on top of Harry, too heavy to move.

 _So warm. And beautiful_. Harry still wasn’t sure if he would have found any naked man attractive, but Draco did very well. There were scars scattered here and there on the pale skin, and he knew he was responsible for causing some of them, but if any blame for that lingered in Draco’s brilliant, focused gray eyes, Harry couldn’t find it. He let Draco pull his glasses off—somehow, they had forgotten those—and things went even softer, even blurrier. He turned his face and nuzzled into blond hair.

“There was something about making you forget your nervousness, wasn’t there?” Draco breathed, and then his hand closed around Harry’s erection.

“Yes, please,” Harry gasped, and he couldn’t even feel embarrassed that he sounded like some needy kid. He kissed Draco frantically, rutting against his hand, now and then whining impatiently when he didn’t find the pace fast enough. All too soon, though, the tight fist became a loose ring of fingers, and slipped off him. Harry groaned in frustration. “Draco—“

“Not yet.” Draco licked his cheek. “I went you _begging_ by the time I’m done. Just because you’re mine, and I want it.”

Harry swallowed, and managed to nod acquiescence, as Draco set to work to play with his nipples, then the places on his chest that weren’t quite ticklish but made Harry need to _move_ with the sensations they inspired, and then the similar places on his arms. He felt as if Draco were teasing him, but there was also something _satisfying_ in his wanting to take his time like this, when they’d both been desperate for days.

*

Draco felt a moment’s sadness that, if he told Harry he was beautiful at this moment, Harry would probably only think it was passion or the Veela instincts talking. He would have to say it sometime during an argument or in a simple, everyday context, such as when they ate a meal together, and watch those green eyes widen in surprise and delight.

_And probably denial, too. He still doesn’t accept that I think about his appearance the same way he does mine._

But it was _true_. Harry wasn’t some god. He didn’t need to be. He just needed to be what he was: medium height, muscled enough to catch Draco’s attention, possessed of a pair of long legs that couldn’t quite decide where to settle themselves and a head of hair that could successfully have thatched a cottage. His face was warmed and softened with his own passion, and he tried to move into Draco’s hand again, or arched his back to get closer to his mouth, with an absolutely lovely impatience.

 _And he’s mine_.

Draco indulged his possessive instincts by biting another claiming mark into place, this time on Harry’s left shoulder. Harry’s eyes drooped shut and his head rolled limply to the side as Draco marked him. Like the first one, this resembled a pair of lips, but it was white instead of silver when it blazed and the magic settled into it.

“What does _this_ one do?” Harry asked, his voice slurred and his eyes glazed with pleasure as he struggled to keep them open. “Turn me into a statue for you to play with at your leisure?”

“That’s something to remember for later,” Draco murmured, and then laughed at the anger struggling to surface through Harry’s pleasure. “No. It simply shows anyone who asks that the bond is complete. And it’s part of the process that will make you unresponsive to any sexual touch or attraction but mine.” His voice descended into a snarl on the last words. He couldn’t help it. He was a Veela. Jealousy was part of his nature.

“And will you still be able to respond to someone else?” There was a corresponding note of jealousy in Harry’s voice, which made Draco smile.

“Not at all,” he purred. “The magic affecting me doesn’t take hold until I take you, that’s all.” Harry made a face, perhaps to complain about Draco’s “medieval” language again, but Draco stuck a hand under his chin and stopped him, tilting up his face so they _had_ to lock eyes. “Not that I would need magic. I’ll never _want_ anyone else again, Harry. You’re all in all to me.”

*

And here it came, the intimacy he had been afraid of, twisting around his insides like a fishhook. Harry shuddered a bit, and put a hand on Draco’s wrist.

What was he going to say, though? _No, don’t say that, I don’t want to hear it?_ He did. And he was more afraid of his own desire to hear it than he was of Draco’s saying the words in the first place.

“Harry?” Draco’s face hovered just above his, his eyes concerned. _Probably by the green color my face’s turned_ , Harry thought distantly.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, and then kissed Draco to distract himself from his own thoughts. It was _not_ soppy. Draco was _not_ about to laugh at him, since he was the one who had made the declaration in the first place. As Harry came to believe that, strength he hadn’t known he had firmed his hands and made him lie back again. “You can continue what you were doing now,” he said, with a grand wave of one palm.

Draco narrowed his eyes and glared at him, as though he knew something other than mere eagerness for sex lay behind Harry’s permission, but couldn’t figure out what it was. In the end, he shook his head, and began to kiss and lick his way down Harry’s chest again.

Harry closed his eyes, and for long moments let himself simply drift, _feeling_. Sharp shocks of sensation cut through him, scored his flesh as though they would leave scars. He gasped and panted and outright moaned when Draco’s teeth and tongue found his most sensitive places, and he could feel Draco’s pleased smile against his skin, though he never said anything aloud about it.

Then Draco moved away altogether. Harry would have opened his eyes and asked him where he had gone, but he needed a moment to recover strength for either.

And then, just as he had on an evening a few months ago when Harry had come to him more for the sake of rebellion against Ginny than for anything Draco could offer him on his own, he put his mouth around Harry’s cock and nudged slick fingers against the area between his legs, behind his balls. Harry let loose a shaky breath and parted his legs, attempting to concentrate on the pleasure instead of his fear.

_He won’t hurt you. He won’t laugh at you. That would scare you off, and his Veela is dying for this._

It went deeper than that, though, and he knew it.

 _He won’t hurt you or laugh at you because he loves you_.

The remembrance traveled through his body like a calming spell. He forced his muscles to relax, loosed a tense, trembling breath through his nose, and then arched into Draco’s mouth, trying an experiment: he loosed the complicated mixture of groan and mutter that he had wanted to give, but hadn’t before because he felt too embarrassed.

From the enthusiastic response of Draco’s fingers, his vocalization had been anything but unwelcome.

*

Draco could tell the moment when Harry gave in and stopped acting as though he would have more fear than pleasure from this. It was all there in his voice and the way he finally gave himself over, letting down any barriers that remained.

Draco felt the first of his fingers glide into Harry’s body at the same moment. He kept it there, circling gently. He still felt the same burning ache to join and bond with his mate that he’d felt all week, but it had settled so deep now that it felt like lava burning underground. Its time to erupt would come, and it could _wait_.

In the meantime, he could feast his eyes on the sight of Harry’s movements growing less steady and more uncoordinated, his throat rippling as he let little gasps of delight go like birds from their cages. He hesitated once, when Draco’s second finger eased into him, and then he spread his legs further. Draco was so proud that he nearly forgot to pick up his wand with his free hand and cast another set of lubrication and cleaning charms.

Harry felt free to do this with _him_. Felt able to relax this much with _him_.

It was oddly humbling. Draco found himself promising, silently, to be worthy of this amount of trust, instead of simply feeling smug and proud that he’d beaten the little Weasley in yet one more thing where Harry was concerned.

Slowly, his two fingers pressed deeper and deeper, and _this_ time, as he couldn’t be sure he’d done in August, he knew when his fingers found Harry’s prostate. Suddenly, Harry convulsed and wailed, the astonished noise of a child who’d seen his first house-elf.

“Like that, love?” Draco asked, taking his mouth from Harry’s cock to do so. Harry nodded, his eyes tightly shut in what looked like pain, though Draco knew it was anything but.

“Good,” Draco whispered. He could feel the Veela welling through him, light and heat in his skin, passion in his eyes. Harry writhing, Harry on the verge of begging, Harry helplessly turned on…this was what he had once vowed he would have, back in February, and he had underestimated by approximately a factor of a million how good it would feel to have it.

He introduced a third finger, and then, when he thought Harry could tolerate it, a fourth. Meanwhile, he’d cast another lubrication charm, and he ran his hand up and down his own erection. He shivered and arched his back slightly at how good it felt, but he knew he wouldn’t come yet. He couldn’t, not until he was taking his mate—which was a fine word, no matter what Harry thought about it.

And then Harry said, “Draco, I think I’m ready,” in a surprised voice, as though he had never thought he would speak those words.

Draco didn’t question him. He stooped forwards instead, bent over Harry, kissed him, and then gently rearranged his body on the bed so as to have easier access to where he needed to go. His heart was beating enough to make his chest throb; his whole body seemed to be twitching in response to it.

*

Harry had given up.

There was no more fear in him, no dignity, nothing but pleasure. He still knew he’d felt those emotions, but he left them behind on the shores of the maelstrom, and ventured deeper and deeper into the whirling chaos of the new emotions around him. He was gasping silently, parting his legs, begging for it, pleading. It was amazing that he found the strength in his voice to say what he did to Draco. He was such a mass of want that he’d thought Draco would have to interpret his desire from nothing more than the light in his eyes, the flush to his cheeks, the expression on his face.

But Draco had heard him, and probably read some of the other signals too, and now he was gently entering him.

There _was_ some pain. Harry disregarded it the same way he’d disregarded his fear when he faced the dragon in the Triwizard Tournament. He _knew_ he could do this, just like he’d known he could fly when riding his Firebolt. Everything else was unimportant right now; no one in the world could demand more of him than what he was doing.

He wondered, hazily, why people thought of _any_ part of sex as being a passive act. It took immense concentration, was what it took.

He could feel Draco’s arms trembling, and setting up answering quivers in his own body, as he slowly pushed himself deeper and deeper, not trying to hurt Harry but not going backwards either. Harry let his legs fall open further, took a deep, huffing breath, and opened his eyes in the moment when Draco finally stopped moving.

Draco stared down at him with a dazed expression. Just behind the haze in his eyes, though, was that deep and self-interested possessiveness that Harry had never confessed to anyone he loved. He smiled and lifted a hand, trailing it up and down Draco’s elbow, since it was the easiest part of his body to reach from the way he lay. Except the part buried inside him, of course. Harry suspected he might get the giggles in a moment, but no, they wouldn’t be the giggles, they would be the deep and wholesome laughter he’d collapsed into the first morning he realized Voldemort was _really_ dead, _really_ gone, and a dark and loathsome part of his life was over.

The part he’d shared with Ginny wasn’t dark and loathsome, but this was a change, a rebirth, so grand and dazzling that it _seemed_ to throw the past into shadow. More than the pleasure, he’d conquered his own fear and distrust, and learned to let himself be taken care of.

“Well,” he said to Draco, who was panting and sweating and trembling like a horse on the verge of a race and staring at him like he was a revelation. “Are you going to move?”

*

Those words snapped the control that Draco had been clinging to, a desperately thin thread in the first place.

He shifted backwards, and then threw himself forwards. Harry’s eyes opened a bit wider, and he grunted, but if there was pain there, he hid it well, or transformed it into material for a challenge. His gaze on Draco remained steady, and the grip of the nearly-too-tight skin around Draco just seemed to grow tighter, as if he’d deliberately clenched down.

A spark in the green eyes made Draco sure he had.

Oh, if _that_ was the way it was going to be, then!

Draco began to move in earnest, his strokes growing faster and longer as he realized he really wasn’t going to hurt Harry, that he was just hitting a stride as strong and inevitable as the whole progress of their bond. Harry gasped and laughed beneath him, and sometimes uttered wild bursts of breath, as if he would swear if Draco would just give him the time and the room.

Draco didn’t intend to give him the time or the room. Never again. He wouldn’t allow that much room to come in between them.

His vision began to alternate in dizzying pulses: half the time he saw the room in front of him, half the time he saw a glittering white-silver light that danced around his head like wings and flowed down his face like honey. But between each strobe, each flash, was Harry’s wide-open, trusting face, the green eyes like some glimpse of an unconquered country, the claiming marks shining out Draco’s possession and declaring it to the world.

The possession Harry had agreed to.

Fierce tenderness rose up in Draco, along with the desire to keep Harry safe and vulnerable and alive and argumentative and happy and angry forever, and he bent, pressing his lips to his mate’s. The Veela magic went on building in him. The light grew thicker, and the bedroom and the haze traded places faster and faster.

Draco felt his body’s tension and gathering speed, and knew the end was as inevitable as anything else they’d done, and closer.

Harry suddenly went still beneath him. Draco shook his head, blinking, trying to see his face, but not in fear. He knew this was nothing bad, knew it as surely as the Veela had ever known its mate.

Sure enough, Harry cried out beneath him, a sound like epiphany, and then he was coming, his eyes wide open in shock and surprise, his muscles coiled tight with joy. Draco let himself drop forwards, so that their chests nearly touched but not quite, and joined him.

Magic kicked him in the back at the same moment as orgasm kicked him in the stomach. Thorn-sharp memories of Harry followed him into the middle of a forgetfulness so amazing and so complete that Draco swore he could feel pieces of himself break and shatter in front of it.

And of course they had, he realized a moment later. This was a breaking, a reforging, so that the Veela and the mate could become one instead of a separate two.

It was, quite literally, the best he had ever felt.

He dropped limply when it was done, and kissed Harry, and kissed him.

*

“No.”

“Draco, I want to go.”

“No.” Draco clenched his hands into fists and turned away. “Absolutely not. I refuse. I forbid it.”

He could feel Harry rolling his eyes behind his head. “Fine,” he said then, his voice clipped. “I’d hoped to persuade you, but that I can’t hardly bothers me.” Of course it bothered him; Draco knew that from the sharp sounds as Harry pulled his cloak on, if nothing else. “But I _will_ spend New Year’s with the Weasleys, even if you won’t come.”

That was _not on_. Draco spun around, grabbed Harry by the shoulders, and pinned him to the wall of the entrance hall in the Manor. “No,” he spat.

Harry gave him a deeply unimpressed look, arched his back and twisted his leg at the same time, and hooked Draco behind the ankle, sending him into an uncontrolled stumble. Harry extricated himself, neatly, and said, with some heat, “You little _wanker_. You don’t _control_ me. If I want to spend New Year’s with my friends, that’s exactly what I’ll do.”

Draco got to his feet, scowling. “I’d rather spend it in the Manor with you,” he said. “That’s all.” They’d spent a quiet Christmas that way, and though plenty of gifts had arrived for Harry from the Weasleys, he hadn’t mentioned a thing about wanting to spend the holiday with _them_ instead. Draco had counted on that success to hold him here when the last day of the year came. What did _Harry_ care about those twins who’d always played pranks on Draco in school, or the overfussy Weasley matriarch and her mad husband, or the Weasley bint climbing all over her new boyfriend and displaying herself to Harry with sly glances? He was supposed to care about Draco _more_.

“Yes, I understand that,” Harry said, with a glare. “Because you dislike the Weasleys.”

“I shouldn’t have to change that.” Draco closed his hands into fists at his sides again. “I know you think they’re completely innocent of the argument with the Malfoys, but if you would just let me tell you the history—“

Harry put up a hand. “I’m not interested in it. And I’m _not_ asking you to change who you are. Wanker.”

“Not with you around,” Draco tried. Another glare was his reward.

“Tonight,” Harry said, and flipped his scarf around his neck with a final twist, “you most assuredly are. As I was saying, I won’t ask you to change everything about yourself. But I have to be who I am, _too_ , Draco, and they’re my _friends_.”

Draco stared at the floor. Harry had made his way towards the front entrance, and he wasn’t looking back, though he had loudly told one of the house-elves not to hold dinner for him, since he wouldn’t be back until after midnight.

“They make me uncomfortable,” Draco said.

He mumbled the words, and if Harry hadn’t heard them and had simply gone through the door, then he could have pretended he didn’t say them. But apparently all Aurors went through some sort of training where they sharpened their ears to unnatural proportions. Harry stiffened, and then turned around and regarded him in silence. “What?” he asked. His voice had gone soft. Draco hated that voice. He had no defense against it.

 _Yes, I really hate that voice_.

“They make me uncomfortable,” Draco told the open door of the study. “I could deal with it if it was just that they were your friends and not mine. But I’ll feel them glaring at me all the time.”

“They will not—“

“Yes, they will.” Draco lifted his head and smiled at Harry. He made it a sad smile, because that was what it had to be. “They did when we went the day after Christmas. You didn’t notice, because they didn’t treat _you_ any differently. But they don’t like me, and if they have to blame someone for your marriage not working out, they blame me.”

“Well,” Harry said, and his voice had turned startled, as though he were remembering all sorts of little things that had happened on that day which he’d ignored. “I—but it wasn’t anyone’s _fault_. Things just _happened_.”

“Yes, but they love you, and they love Ginny, and they don’t love me. Yet, at least,” Draco added, because there was always the possibility that it would happen sometime in the far future, at the same time as all the flying pig farms let loose their secret experiments in avian-porcine breeding. “I _understand_ , I really _do_ , I’ll give them whatever time they need to get used to me, but—just this once, could you spend New Year’s with me instead of them, Harry? I’d really like to have you here.”

He didn’t dare look to see how well it had worked until he heard footsteps next to him, and then a hand cupped his cheek. He glanced up, and met Harry’s eyes, and was almost destroyed by the tenderness in them.

“Now, see,” Harry whispered against his lips, “that’s all you really had to be. Honest. And it’s a perfectly good reason.” His hand came up and tangled in Draco’s hair. “And the answer is yes, by the way.”

Then he started kissing him, and Draco was too happy to feel any real sense of triumph.

*

Harry was aware, even through the kiss, that Draco might, might just possibly, have used honesty as manipulation, to get Harry to agree to something he’d been strongly opposed to at first.

He didn’t care.

He was aware, even through the kiss, that there would be more arguments ahead, not settled so easily, and that Draco’s selfishness and coldness towards other people would doubtless cause problems with the Weasleys in the future, and _something_ would have to change so they could accept each other, because Harry wasn’t leaving either his adopted family or his lover out of his life.

He didn’t care.

He was aware, even through Draco’s hands rising and tangling back in his own hair, trembling as they touched Harry, that there were plenty of people in the wizarding world who still didn’t like them and wouldn’t want to see them together, that Draco would have trouble finding a Quidditch team who would accept him the way he wanted to be accepted, that there would be wide wastes of bitterness and regret to cross before things could be truly congenial between Harry and Ginny again, instead of careful and polite.

He didn’t care.

He could see Draco’s eyes, soft and filled with awe, as though he saw something much more important than one wizard, the center of his life, or of his soul.

He could feel his own face looking the same way.

Harry didn’t care about the other things right now, because he was _happy_.

End.


End file.
